And I Thought I Had Problems
by zosofi
Summary: AU. Werewolf!Stiles deals with nefarious soul-sucking witch spells, Scott's inability to be a fully functioning adult, Danny's incessant need to make everything about sex, and finding out that his mate is Derek Hale. Tuesdays suck. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Honestly I have no idea what I'm doing.  
**

**Please be aware this piece of work contains profanity.  
**

"Dude, I'm fuckin' in your _pack_, why won't you just say it!?" Scott, Stiles likes to think, doesn't know how high his voice gets when he's whining. He couldn't know, or he wouldn't do it. Unless he's smarter than Stiles gives him credit for, and his attempt at impersonating a banshee is some sort of punishment meant to make him give in. Scott _knows _how Stiles gets with banshees.

"You're drunk," Stiles says, because that's the only explanation for why he smells like alcohol and why he's swaying dangerously from his position perched outside Stiles' window, claws embedded in the window sill.

"No shit, ditchface!" Scott lurches forward, collapsing into a heap on the floor that kind of, no really, looks uncomfortable. Stiles doesn't move from where he's sitting, feet perched on his desk, laptop in his lap. It's not really worth it, and he's tired. Getting up requires energy, and Stiles spent all of his going to class and working and then going to class again and then working some more.

"Ditchface?" Stiles asks, running a hand over his head. He kind of misses his buzzcut from his high school and undergrad years. Maybe he should shave it again. Maybe get a cool ass tattoo at the back of his cranium or something. It would do wonders for his street cred-

"Dickhead!" Scott grumbles from wherever his head is. Stiles can't see it for all the rumpled clothes and twitching limbs.

"Because I won't say you're in my pack? Dude, there _are_ no packs anymore." Stiles saves the essay he's been working on for Professor Deaton's—An Analysis of Inter-Species Conflict through a Multicultural Perspective—and goes to reach for his phone.

Scott, still an undergrad since he took two years off after high school to _"find himself"_ (or, sit on Miss McCall's couch and collect dust), is taking Non-Human History this semester with someone named Professor Finlock, and got it into his head, after a unit on werewolves, that he wanted to be part of Stiles' pack, whatever that means. Okay, granted, Scott has been going on about packs and shit ever since he could speak, but Finlock brought it all back with a vengeance. And _terms_. Like Alpha and Beta and Omega and bonds and other weird ass pre-all-the-supernatural-creatures-coming-out-of-the-woodwork shit. Stiles is too busy for that, because Stiles is an adult (_hah!)_ and has adult responsibilities (_hah!)_ like work and tuition and making sure his dad eats his stupid vegetables.

He's pretty sure, actually, that all that crap—the pack dynamics, especially—was just the easiest way for werewolves to keep themselves in check_ before_. When they, weren't, you know, common place and were hunted because of what they were. Everyone knows that werewolves are not actually _wolves_. They are wolf-like humans. That may, on occasion, turn into more-wolf like humans.

Okay, sure, sometimes he _does_ whine—literally—and growl, and yes, at times, he _may_ sprout unnecessary body hair, claws, distinctly predatory canines, and yeah, sure, his eyes glow red when he's pissed, but he's still _human_, too. Or more-than-human. Or whatever. Just because he has wolf-like characteristics doesn't mean he has to kowtow to whoever the hell thought organizing groups of werewolves into particularly tight-knit and violent dictatorships was a good idea. Stiles' BA in political science and history says fuck that. Fuck whoever says it's _instinct._ This is the 21st century. The Supernatural Being Rights Treaty of 1917 didn't happen so that werewolves were allowed to be all _packy_ in public (well, they can if they want to, but they don't _have_ to, is what Stiles is getting at). It happened so that they—and, well, all the rest of the more-than-humans—could actually live normal lives without being hunted by whatever Nutty McNutterson was feeling up to it.

"Dsn't mttaaar," Scott grumbles, and Stiles watches, mouth wide in a kind of stupefied horror, as his best friend scoots himself, head still tucked somewhere between his chest and the floor, arms curled up to either side of him, towards his chair. The friction between Scott's cheek and the floor makes a squeaking noise that has Stiles wrinkling his nose and fisting his hands, the screeching a deafening sound to his senses. Scott's heartbeat stutters along with his, though, so at least he's not the only one hurting.

"_Oooowwwww,_" Scott says, collapsing back down. "_Screeeecchy."_

"Dude, you are _so_ drunk."

"I _know,_" Scott whines. "Make it go _away_. I dn't lkeee ittt. Whhhhy am I drruuuuunk!?"

Instead of getting up—Scott's already snoring, because apparently he now has narcolepsy as well as the inability to handle alcohol, so there's no reason to move him—Stiles calls Allison.

…Who doesn't pick up, so he calls Jackson, who, of course, does.

"I'm busy, fucktwat," he greets. Gotta love the man.

"Scott's drunk, button-nose."

"I don't think Jungle has Were-beer, Stiles. He can't be drunk. He's acting. Kick him or something. And I don't have a button nose." Stiles can hear the sounds of a party in full gear in the background. It sounds like there's a witch blowing things up. Which is scarily possible. Witches get away with a lot, something about religious practices and loopholes in the law. Same way he and the majority of his friends have gotten to stay home during the full moon every month since they were born. Or bitten, in Allison's case.

Ugh, _that_ had been a dramatic period in their already fraught-with-tension high school careers.

"No, he smells drunk. He's definitely drunk. Weren't you with him? Allison's party, or whatever? You know, the one I couldn't go to. The one I'm not at now. And yeah, you do."

"I don't! And, dude, I told you, when we made the reservations we didn't _know_ you had been banned, all right? You didn't _tell_ us that _this_ was the place you kicked that guy's-And they were expensive, so, I mean—"

"You were with him, though, right?" Stiles watches as Scott flops onto his back. There are pictures drawn in sharpie all over his face. Written on his forehead are the words, 'if found, please return to Allison Argent," partially hidden by what is either a crude rendition of a butterfly or a dick. Stiles is gonna go with the latter.

"Is Allison there?"

"No, she left with Scott three hours ago. It's three in the morning, limp-lips, why the hell would they still be here?"

"What the fuck does limp lips mean? And I don't know, it's Allison's grad party? Why are you still there? It's three in the morning, don't you have an exam or something?" Stiles sometimes hates Jackson. But he's known him since they were kids—or, as Scott would say, _pups_—back since Beacon Hills Elementary School. He was nice until puberty hit in middle school, and then he became a dick.

Not the good kind, either. The mommy/daddy issues, lacrosse captain, abercombie wannabe with a side of pent-up teenage werewolf control issues kind of dick. Then there was that whole being-a-kanima-for-six-months thing. He toned down, a bit, when he met Lydia, after Stiles had _singlehandedly _(okay, not so singlehandedly, but it was _his_ plan) saved the ungrateful bastard. So, by the time college came around, Jackson had, somehow, become a part of the pa—the _gang_.

Jackson became part of the _gang_. Not pack. No packs. There are no packs.

Stiles studiously ignores the fuzzy feeling he gets every time he thinks the word.

"That's the day after tomorrow, fuckface. I'm releasing pent up nerves."

"Yeah, sure. So…Allison is at…home?"

"I. Don't. Know. Leave. Me. Alone." Jackson hangs up just as something _definitely _explodes in the background, and for a second, Stiles wishes he wasn't banned from Jungle. He hadn't been to a good party since his 23rd birthday, and that was three months ago.

_Three months_. And since then everything has been about essays and school and working at _Good Books_ (the owner, Miss Donavue is an agoraphobic shut in ever since her ex turned out to be one of those crazy born-again religophile hunters, which sucks for her but makes Stiles' job way easier) _and_ being a TA to Professor Hard-Ass Harris. Then there's the whole impending graduation season. Not for him, though. For him it's on to a doctorate, which is a good five more years of writing and kissing ass, and then….and then, well…Stiles doesn't know what happens after that.

"I'm in your _pack_, Stiles," Scott groans. "You have red eyes!"

"So…do you?" Stiles wonders what the hell red eyes have to do with-_oh_, right. The whole Alpha thing.

It should be noted that Stiles is not as familiar with werewolf society as some think he should be. But he took Multi-Species Studies in high school and in undergrad—he had to, it's a requirement—so he knows a little more than the basics. Like the whole mate thing. Fuck that shit. That shit sucks. Fuck the idea that his _wolf_—that, what, makes up less than one percent of his DNA—is going to choose who he's going to fall in love with. That is some mumbo-jumbo mystic crap and he is totally _not_ down with it. And while four of his friends are happily mated—Jackson to Lydia, and Allison and Scott—he still gets hung up about the whole lack-of-free-will thing. Plus, knowing his luck, his mate is some douchebag sleazeball with commitment issues and a mean streak.

Anyway, Stiles is not familiar with his werewolf side because, really, he doesn't _care_ that he's a werewolf. It's who he is. Learning to be a werewolf through pre-determined rules and social customs is like giving in to the whole race-is-culture myth for humans. And they've been arguing against that for centuries, so why does he have to embrace what he doesn't want to?

So, yeah, Stiles doesn't know a lot about his werewolf side—or, well, he likes to think he doesn't—because he has never been interested in it. Or, well, that's not true either. He _is_ interested in it. He knows it—it isn't separate from him, or his human side, or whatever the werewolf theorists like to say. He's a werewolf, that's all there is to it. He doesn't need labels or protocols or weird-ass pack dynamics to know who and what he is.

It's been unavoidable though, especially lately, to learn how _different_ and _un-human_ he is. Scott likes to just randomly insert bits of werewolf lore into everyday conversations. Like yesterday when he talked about the importance of scenting. Stiles had nearly thrown a dictionary at his face to shut him up. It wasn't a paperback dictionary either, it was a big ass, hardbound monster of a dictionary. He had it on good authority that it would do some serious damage if used as a weapon.

But, anyway, Alphas. Red eyes. That's pretty much it. Scott says they're dominant or whatever, that they're more in tune with their wolf or something like that. But every wolf he knows has red eyes when they shift. Except for Jackson, though. His are blue. Pretty blue eyes, he likes to call him.

"But you're an Alpha!" Scott is still awake, then. Okay. Obviously this isn't going to go away. And Stiles is too tired to actually figure out _how _exactly Scott got drunk, so he supposes it's time to go to bed. He gets up, putting his laptop down and plugging it in for the night. Or is it morning. Whatever. He's been sitting so long his legs do the pins-and-needles thing when he takes a step, but it's gone before he takes another, and so he picks Scott up and dumps him on his bed.

"You're an Alpha, too," Stiles says, pulling Scott's shoes off—he doesn't want to know why there's Playdoh stuck to the soles, doesn't care either—and throws them where he usually does when Scott sleeps over. In the trash.

What. It's a joke. Scott gets a kick out of it.

"We're…a—" Scott scrambles underneath the covers while Stiles goes over to his closet and gets his PJ's. Or, well, a clean pair of boxers and the three-wolf moon tee his dad had gotten him. But PJ's sounds more PG-friendly. He reserves the right to be PG-friendly when it's Scott in his bed and not someone that he's actually attracted to.

Like Selena Gomez.

Or Ryan Gosling.

Or both

Together.

Naked.

Anyway, PJ's.

It takes five minutes for him to wash his face and brush his teeth, and then he's pushing Scott to one side of his bed and stealing a pillow so he doesn't wake up with neck problems.

Ten minutes later, he's asleep.

When Stiles wakes up, it's ridiculously hot. Too hot for him to be alone. Werewolves naturally run hotter, but this…this is ridiculous. This is furnace hot. Sticky hot. Waking up in the middle of what is probably a puppy pile hot. Groaning, he shifts, and sure enough, his movements are impeded by weight. A lot of weight. Multiple bodies weight.

He opens his eyes, glaring at the sun that is shining down on him _way too happily_, then, somehow, rolls over a couple of bodies and drops to the floor. Which is, thankfully, covered in clothes to soften the blow. Not his clothes, though.

Sighing, Stiles flips himself over. They're all on his bed. Allison. Scott. Jackson. Danny. Lydia. All of his pa—_gang._ They're all there, half naked, stinking of alcohol and sweat and other people, covered in sharpie and glitter. Scott is drooling. Lydia is gnawing on Jackson's finger, caught up in some dream. Allison is growling and twitching. And Danny is sleeping like an angel. A beautiful tanned angel with abs of steel and calves of marble and cheeks chiseled out of granite.

Even as he watches they kind of undulate to fill up the now empty space that he had previously been sleeping in, limbs wrapping around each other, mouths making stupid snuffling noises, smiling stupidly content smiles.

Damn it, why is it always his bed they decide to do the puppy pile thing in?

He wants to wake them up, really, he does, but the last time he tried Lydia had punched him in the nose. Yeah, the break had healed up in ten minutes, but it still hurt. So he gets up, gets a pair of jeans and tee from his closet, and goes to take a shower.

They wake up when he's in the middle of washing his hair. He can hear their heartbeats change past the sound of the rushing water and the creaking of pipes. Then Lydia says something about breakfast. And feet start connecting with creaking wood. And by the time he's dressed, they're all sitting at his kitchen table, chewing noisily on whatever they could dredge up from his cupboards and fridge.

He knows, even before he opens the door and throws his towel in the hamper, that Lydia is sitting on Jackson's lap, that Scott and Allison are feeding each other, that Danny is depressed because the guy he has a crush on is—_wait_.

Stiles shouldn't know that. Danny is an incubus. Danny _isn't even a werewolf_. How the hell does Stiles know—

"Because you're _pack_, dude!" Scott yells.

Stiles doesn't get mad often. Never, actually. Okay, rarely. Like, two times in twenty three years has he totally lost control. He doesn't like getting mad. Stiles is a lover, not a fighter. He believes in talking and communication and winning arguments with words, because, come on, Stiles is pretty fricken' good with words, and he usually ends up winning.

But occasionally, when Stiles feels wronged, he does lose control. Only when he feels very wronged, though, like when Sophie Billings stole the doll his mother had given him in 4th grade and threw it in the muddy playground. Stiles had lost control then, and Sophie had been sent to the hospital with a shredded arm, a concussion, and a lifelong aversion to were-people thereafter, while Stiles had been put on disciplinary probation and forced to visit a shrink for three years. He loses control now, too, because nothing is as sacred to him as the privacy of his own head.

And when someone—especially as someone as idiotic (no offense, bro) as Scott—breaches that, he knows that something is wrong. Because it's never happened before. Because they're best friends, and Scott knows when he's sad, or angry, or hurt, even without him saying anything, but that he can read his emotions – his _mind _- from so far away? Now that's some suspicious shit right there.

So he loses control, and when he comes to, he's holding Scott up against the kitchen wall by his neck, vision tinged red, claws extended and digging into Scott's neck, little rivulets of blood dripping down. There are noises around him, panicked noises, whimpers and whines and muted growls and a very incubi-like hiss, but no one is touching him because he has his fangs out and is snarling in Scott's face.

There's banging, and a new smell meets his nose, and he recognizes it as his dad. But he's a little busy at the moment, so he doesn't turn around to say good morning. Instead, he leans closer, growling a warning when Scott snarls back at him.

"What. Did. You. Do." He says. Or, well, asks. It _is_ a question, but it's hard making questions sound like questions when your fangs are out. It's been proven, actually. There are papers out about it, long papers with years of research and studies behind them. Something to do with the elongated canines and the tongue and linguistics.

"Let my neck go and I'll tell you!" Scott snarls, then whimpers presumably at something in Stiles' expression. A secret part of him gets a little kick out of that, but he lets Scott go and takes a step back, taking deep breaths and ignoring everyone else until he doesn't feel like tearing something up.

Then he realizes that his neck hurts, and brings his hand—de-clawed—up to touch it, growling when it comes away red. Swinging around, he sees that the others are the same. All of them have claw marks on their necks, in the process of closing up even as he looks from injury to injury with frantic eyes.

"I'm getting too old for this, guys." Stiles hears his dad sigh, and swings his head to see him walking over to the coffee maker and pouring himself a travel mug, sheriff uniform already on. "Don't do anything illegal, Stiles, but seriously, just take care of it. I'm not back until nine, so no need to make dinner."

Then he's screwing on the travel lid, giving the group the look he perfected years ago, a combination of disappointment, amusement, and resignation, and walking out the door.

"Dude," Danny says. Stiles agrees. "You uh, you didn't tell us it would be this strong?"

"It's—" Scott slinks around Stiles, going over to the other side of the table to skim his hand over Allison's throat. "I didn't thi—"

"This has something to do with that pack shit you've been going about, doesn't it?" Stiles, suddenly resigned to his fate of having a raging idiot as a best friend (really, why him, just, why him?), pulls out the nearest chair and plops down. "Pack bond, right? Lemme guess, you met a witch last night at the party, were drunk enough—by the way, _how the fuck did you get so drunk_—to start spouting all the usual pack bull and how you want to be _closer_ and all that. Said witch promised you exactly what you wanted, after you gave her money or whatever it is that you gave her. She performed said spell, and now that spell has us _linked_ so that we can read each other's _minds_—and fucking Danny stop thinking of _anal_ _for fuck's sake_—and get injured when any of us get injures, am I close?"

Stiles glares at Scott, who's staring at him wide eyed, then glares at Danny, because he's now thinking of boobs. The guy just shrugs in a non-apology.

"I'm an incubus, Stiles, what do you expect?"

"Ye—yeah dude, that's pretty much exactly what happened." Scott smiles. "Hey, at least it's good for some things, rig—"

"Shut _up,_" Lydia snarls. "I swear, Jackson, if you don't stop thinking about my ass I am going to—"

"_You're_ thinking about Professor Jefferson _naked_, and I can't think about my mate's _ass!?" _Jackson suddenly shouts. Sure enough, Stiles is getting glimpses of some random naked dude. He thought he'd been the one thinking that.

"It's purely aesthetic!" Lydia yells back.

"Agggghh, no. Scott. No. Do not go there," Allison interrupts, and Stiles realizes, as he gets a very NC17 picture of Allison and Scott doing mate things together burned into his brain, that he's not going to class today. Or work. At least, not to work. Maybe to research, but not to work. Everyone is suddenly screaming and yelling and panicking, and, for a split second, Stiles wonders why all of them are thinking about sex, but then Jackson flashes a picture of a very naked Lydia, and Stiles wishes he was asleep.

"Shut up!" He snarls, in his best command voice. Pushing everything else to the back of his head, he tries to replace what everyone else is thinking with nothing. Pure, calming, peaceful, nothing. Surprisingly, it works, because they all freeze and stare at him.

"You were right," Danny whispers, hitting Scott on the shoulder. "He _is_ the Alpha."

"Oh, fuck off," Stiles says, then hits his head against the table when someone—it feels like Allison—flashes some pornography his way.

"Sorry." She lifts her hands up in a placating gesture.

"All right, yeah. This isn't good, right? Because I don't think we can all function with a constant porn-ping." Jackson looks around, douche-face on. Like anyone is going to disagree with him.

"Scott, first off, how'd you get drunk?"

"Well, uh, how I always get drunk," Scott says. He sees an image of Scott being given a bottle—an open bottle, what the fuck, Scott—of were-beer by a bony hand, nails manicured into a severe inverted French manicure (Lydia supplies the term for him). Everyone groans.

Fucking witches and their fucking penchant for nail salons.

Stiles really needs to stop saying—thinking-fuck so much. It makes him think of naked people.

Damn it. Stupid Scott. Can't even cuss in private now.

"So, the same witch that cast this…spell was the one that gave you were-beer. Beer that is specially made to make weres drunk, if you weren't aware, Scott." Stiles knows he shouldn't be so sarcastic. But it beats punching the dude, especially now that it will literally hurt him more than it will Scott.

"Yes."

"And she—I'm assuming it's a she—then offered this spell to you _while_ you were drunk?"

"Yes."

"And do you know what she looks like?"

"I—If I saw her, maybe?" Stiles gets a blurry image of something human shaped. A girl, short, maybe 5'1, with dark black hair and a—Stiles squints.

"She has a tattoo. Do you remember what that tattoo is, Scott? Can you like, zoom and enhance?"

"Dude, this isn't fuckin' CSI." Jackson snorts. Stiles snarls, and is oddly pleased when Jackson whimpers. Then he realizes he's pleased, and he knows it has something to do with the spell. It has to have, like, enhanced their wolfiness or something. For fuc—for _frick's_ sake.

"So, I'm assuming," Stiles looks around. Everyone is looking at the table in front of them, half miserable, half panicked, and it feels like high school all over again. "that we're going to be finding a way to get rid of this?"

"Yes," All of them say together, loudly, with diction. Except Scott, who kind of mumbles it half-heartedly, doing that puppy-dog eye thing he does so well.

"Good, great, _faaaan_tastic. So can I just ask, because I'm curious, _why_ you did…this?" Stiles waves his hand vaguely around the room. "And why did you guys…._let_ him?"

"I just…" Scott mumbles, looks around at everyone. Stiles braces himself. "I just like the idea of being in a pack with you guys, and everyone has been denying it, and—"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Danny snarls. Stiles sends a mental high five his way, but blanches at the next part. "We _are_ pack. We don't need any sort of spell to know that, Scott."

"He's right, babe." Allison skims her hand across Scott's cheek, smiling at him. "We're pack. It's cute that you want us to be bonded, but, you gotta admit, this is kind of extreme."

"Bu—"

"Why the hell do you think I hang out with you testicles?" Jackson butts in. "Because I actually like you? Hell no. Pack, dude."

Stiles can feel himself sinking into his chair, hoping the floor opens up and swallows him. Lydia goes over and hugs the idiot, and then there's silence. He can feel their eyes on him. Judging him. Waiting for him.

"Stiles never says we're pack," Scott starts, voice soft and, oh god, it's _cracking_, like he's going to _cry_. No. Oh no. He closes his eyes, _squeezes_ them closed, but when the silence continues, he knows he has no choice.

"Scott, you fuckin' idiot, of _course_ we're pack," he mumbles. "Today's not the first time we've all slept in the same bed. How do you explain that? It's not like we're having orgi—"

"Agh!

"No!"

"Don't say that word, oh god the images. Just stop! Please!"

"Eye bleach, please, I need it!"

"We see each other _every day_, Scott," Stiles continues, wincing a bit. "We fucking _scent_ each other. Okay. Even Danny. He's an incubus. Not a werewolf. Why would we scent him if we're _not a pack_?"

"Because you keep saying we're not!" Scott screeches. Literally, he screeches. The banshee whine last night is nothing compared to this. Everyone, including Danny, whines.

"Oh my _god_." Stiles gets up, goes over to the fridge and grabs an apple. "We're pack, Scott. You. Me. Us. Everyone in this room. Maybe even my dad. We're _pack_. Packity pack pack. Puppy pile. Scent riddled. _Pack_. Happy?" Disgusted, Stiles takes a bite of his apple. The contentment is coming off of Scott in waves. Thick, overpowering, humid, smelly waves. Even without the spell, Stiles could've sensed it.

"And you're the Alpha," Scott says a little while later. Maybe ten seconds. When Stiles just continues to eat his apple, Scott narrows his eyes. So do the others, actually. "Say it."

"Why am I the—"

"_Say it,_" Scott says again.

"But I—"

"Dude, just say it. He's gonna start crying," Lydia snarls. "You know you're the Alpha anyway? Why do you think we all sleep in _your_ bed? Or mostly wear _your _clothes? Or listen to you when it's obvious you're the most annoying out of all of us?"

"Because I'm smart." Stiles refuses to give in without a fight. He has standards.

"Who's always the most calm? The most collected? The one we go to when shit hits the f—"

"NO IDIOMS." Jackson gags. "Oh god I think I can smell it. Is there actually shi—"

"—when _things _go wrong," Lydia finishes, looking pale and slightly disgusted. Stiles feels the same. "You, Stiles."

"And! Who's the scariest when they get angry!?" Allison continues.

"Uhh…Lydia, of course." Stiles throws the apple core in the trash, raises his eyebrows at Allison because she _knows_ he's right.

"You…you may be right. But when you had Scott by the throat, none of us went to help him. We couldn't. It was like it wasn't our place. Even if all of us were getting hurt 'cuz of it."

"Huh," Stiles says, unimpressed.

"Dude, just say it. He's gonna find the witch again and get her to spell you into like, an uber-Alpha," Jacksons says, mouth full from the banana he's eating. Stiles closes his eyes before his mind goes to a dirty, dirty place.

"I'm…I'm the Alph," he says. And damn it why does that feel so good.

"Yes you are. But boss me around and I swear I will ruin you," Lydia says, sacharine sweet.

* * *

Stiles is kind of an expert at dealing with emergencies. Once he gets past the initial freakout stage, that is. Not that he likes that about himself—okay, maybe a little part of him likes it—but it's kind of necessary when you're friends with a group of people who seem to _thrive_ off mayhem and almost imminent death and destruction. Yeah, he may be a little rusty (it's been a whole year since the leprechaun thing; Stiles still shivers whenever he sees a rainbow), but he knows he still has it.

There's a kind of…process that comes with these things, and maybe, actually, that's what Stiles likes about them. Sure, everything is up in the air, but there's the whole excitement factor, and the detective work, and the inevitable showdown. Most of the time, it all comes together into something that, while not completely _pleasant_, is definitely not at all boring. Sometimes, Stiles thinks he gets off on this kind of stuff. It helps his concentration problems—that would be ADHD if not for his werewolfiness-and quiets that constant buzzing at the back of his mind. Makes him feel like he has a _purpose_.

But, anyway, processes. Steps. Stiles is good at this.

The first step, in most emergency situation that deal with unknown supernatural dangers is, of course, _research_. Actually, that's what takes the most time in these kind of things. Research. Lots of research. Hours. Days. Weeks, if it's a really complex problem. On the internet and in books, mostly. But this situation isn't like most situations. If it was, they would all be at _Good Books_ already, laptops in tow, camped out in the dark-lit back room with most of the store's supernatural book section piled around them. They can't even function without sending each other random images. Most of them pornography (actually, Stiles has a theory that Danny is behind that - one reason not to have a magically enhanced pack-bond with an incubus; the inability to function without turning everything into sex).

So, Stiles being Stiles, has step one hashed out even before they force him to declare himself as Alpha. An Alpha of a pack of Alphas (and whatever Jackson is. A Beta? An Omega? A douche? Probably a douche. Oh, and Danny). An Alpha's Alpha? Alpha Supreme? Next level Alpha? _The _Alpha? An Alphapha? Alfalfa?

Whatever. Stiles is _not_ a perennial flowering plant, thank you very much.

Anyway, the first step, in this case, is to figure out if they can get enough control to not completely embarrass themselves in public and/or wilt into a huddle of collective pain and confusion.

Well, anymore than they already do on a day-today basis, that is.

It takes an hour and a half, getting them all under a semblance of control. Ten minutes of useless discussion (with enough sexual subtext to make Stiles consider therapy for all of them). Then, thirty minutes researching on Stiles' laptop. And then, when some methods of mind-blocking (no shit, it's actually called _mind-blocking_, like some cheesy ass b-rated kung fu movie) start looking somewhat useful, it takes another forty minutes for everyone to get the hang of it.

Stiles allows himself a fuck yeah moment when he's not inundated with various disturbing images for a full minute, then tells everyone to be ready in ten, because it's time for step one.

Or step two, in this case. But step one as in researching.

It's when Jackson is in the shower, and the rest of them are sitting at the kitchen table, twenty minutes after Stiles told everyone to be ready in ten, that he feels it. Like a suctioning. Not anything physical. Definitely magic. Definitely bad. And he can feel it all over, but he doesn't see anything wrong around him. No strange winds or unexplainable bruises. It's just a feeling. A very wrong feeling. Like something is being _taken_ from him. From all of them.

"You feel tha—" he starts.

"Yeah," Scott says.

And then there's a crash from upstairs where Jackson is panicking, and Lydia sprints up to go check up on him while the rest of them just kind of…wait.

"You think it's anything—" Allison is holding herself very still. Scott's hand is resting on her shoulder, but his claws are out and he's glaring at the wall in front of them like it's responsible. The suctioning gets worse, and Stiles gasps, his hand clenching the table hard enough to dent. He can feel it _tearing_. Ripping and rendering and _burning_, and something in him kind of clutches, uselessly, at whatever is being taken, but it's no use, because even as he tries to think of a way to make it go away, it stops, and he's left gasping for air and aching for something. Something that he can't describe except to say that it's missing.

"Yeah, it's something bad," Stiles says. But it's good, too. Because it's a clue. Something to help them figure out what's going on. Suddenly Stiles has a feeling that this isn't just some enhanced pack bond. The whole suctioning thing kind of made that obvious. It has a more nefarious purpose. Witches love doing nefarious shit to werewolves. They never pick on were-snakes or were-cats or were-dogs or were-_anything_ _else_ really. They just have a natural propensity for fucking with werewolf lives.

He knows that if he bothered to look it up, he'd find some centuries old rivalry. Actually, that sounds familiar. Maybe he did a research paper on it once in high school.

Or maybe Scott did it.

Moving slowly, Stiles straightens, methodically putting his laptop in it's case, and putting _that_ in his bag. He stands, zips it up, slings it over his shoulder, and grabs his keys from the table.

"I'm waiting in the car. Tell Jackson to hurry his ass up," he says, and if his voice squeaks a little, no one says anything.

Because he's the _alfalfa_, fuck yeah.

* * *

Despite being small, dusty, and the official hangout place for all town crazies (including him and his pack, come to think of it) Stiles likes _Good Books_. He likes working there, he likes the quiet, and the peace, and he likes being able to use the huge supernatural studies section when stuff like this happens.

Before Miss Donavue became a shut-in, she used to help them research. She used to sit with them for hours in the back-room, her unruly red hair pulled into a bun and her extra-high prescription glasses making her eyes look buggish, flipping through grimoires and faded textbooks, accessing private databases that even Stiles could never find (before she showed them to him, of course). She made it feel…homey. Comfortable. Fun, even.

But Miss Donavue isn't here today, so when Stiles walks into _Good Books_, the rest of the pack straggling behind him, he knows today is going to be frustrating, ridiculous, and all around just a shitty experience.

"Stiles, my man!" Freddie, his sometimes co-worker, greets him from the second story balcony, where he's shelving self-help books (there's a system to their organization, there really is). "You're not on for today, right? You need the extra cash? Why are they—oh. _Oh_."

"Yeah. It's one of those," Stiles grunts, not stopping on his way to the back room. Freddie knows what it means when they all come in. Especially so early in the morning.

"Hey Freddie," Scott calls from behind him. "you got a new girlfriend yet?"

"Nah, man. Nadine's special. She's the one, I swear. I'm gonna get her back, dude. Just need some time."

Stiles unlocks the back room door with his key, turns on the lights as he walks in. He can hear Scott and Freddie still talking, but Lydia closed the door behind her on the way in, so it's muted enough that he can ignore it. Jackson and Danny start talking about the lacrosse game they played yesterday with some guys from their neighborhood; Lydia hums Gotye; Allison plops down and starts biting her nails nervously, watching Stiles silently. He just lets it all wash over him-a little harder now that he has to work a bit more to keep his thoughts his own—and gets his laptop out, plugging it in and arranging it like he usually does.

There's a structure to these things. Stiles always sits in the corner by the stack of oversized antique books, unsellable because of water damage and/or the terrifyingly violent spells they contain; Danny and Lydia hunch together on the loveseat under the tiny window; Jackson sits across from him, right under the air-conditioning vent; Allison and Scott take the far end of the table, one or both of them keeping watch on the door and any possible outside threats (they've had unexpected and volatile visitors before, so it's always a good idea to have a lookout team).

"So," Stiles says. "I'll go after the witch. Find out who she is; who her coven is."

He gets nods, but there's no real need for them to discuss this anymore. Stiles is in charge of the online stuff (after all, he's the only one that ever remembers to bring his laptop), and the rest handle the books. Jackson and Allison go out to peruse the supernatural section; Danny and Lydia start plopping the books behind him on the table.

"Scott, can you tell me anything else about her?" He asks when the man-in-question finally strolls in. He gets a sudden feeling of panic, one that he knows comes from Scott, and clenches his teeth as he puts a stop to it.

"I'm sorry, Stiles. I can't remember any—"

"It's fine. She had a tattoo, right? It was on the inside of her wrist." Stiles closes his eyes, remembering the blurry image from two hours ago. It was…circular. Definitely circular. With a design inside that looked floral, maybe?

"Yeah, yeah she had a tattoo, and mayb—" Scott squints, his nose scrunching as he tries to think. Which Stiles knows is hard for the dude. "Maybe she had an accent? Not British, though. But British sounding?"

"Like, Australian? Or New Zealander? Or Scottish? Or Irish? Or—" Danny starts.

"I—no. Like, like she learned English from a British person." Scott plops down just as Allison comes back with an arm full of books.

"Can you try to remember, and ya know, show us?" Stiles refuses to let his bitch-face show. He is the magnanimous leader. He needs to be mature about this, really. There's a pause, and then he hears a voice in his head.

"Hey there," the girl says, but the voice is distorted and fuzzy. Stiles can feel that Scott was already buzzed. There are murmurings of other feelings; confusion, most of all. "you want some of this? I can never finish one by myself."

At least Scott sniffed it before he drank it, is what Stiles thinks, because, seriously, if the guy hadn't Stiles would've disowned him. Useful, though, is that the voice is getting sharper as Scott remembers more. It's definitely British-sounding.

"Okay, might be useful. I'll do a person search," Stiles says. "You guys concentrate on the—"

"The spell, right." Lydia rolls her eyes. "How about someone else brush up on this whole pack bond thing?"

"Yeah. Approach it from another angle, maybe." Allison nods. "I'll do that."

Jackson says something, but Stiles tunes him out, concentrating on his computer and the almost hypnotic sound of his fingers against the keyboard. Danny's a better hacker than him, but three years ago he may have gotten a bit too hack-happy and gotten a slap on the wrist from the NSA. So with stuff like this, Stiles does the hacking. Danny only hacks when it's absolutely necessary, or when there're dead bodies involved (but they don't talk about that). Plus, even _Scott_ could handle hacking the local witch registry. It's practically an open book. You just have to…know where to look.

He isn't too surprised, then, when he's perusing the database in ten minutes, checking for foreign citizenship and a physical description that at least somewhat matches Scott's witch. It's actually kind of depressing, how easy it is. Like riding a bike.

Except, okay, maybe it's not. Because in California alone there are 20,000 witches that match _their_ witch. He's not even going to think about if she's from out of state, so he digs in and starts looking for common denominators, and he thinks he's found something interesting twenty minutes later, but forgets his line of thought when Jackson hits him up side the head.

He snarls before he thinks about it, but it's only because he now realizes he has a headache. Plus his ass is numb.

"What," he says, and it's not phrased like a question this time because his fangs are out. He's just not in the mood. For…uhh, questions.

And everything, really.

"I'm going over to get caffeine. Ben's on shift and I'm pretty sure he'll let me sneak out without telling the boss. You want something?" Danny asks, and Stiles forgets his bad mood.

Danny works at _Where the Hale is My Coffee _across the street, the local competitor to a certain international coffee franchise. Stiles likes WHMC, as it's called by those in the know, because, well, Danny works there, and their tea selection is awesome. Stiles can't drink coffee like the others. The first—and last—time he tried he woke up two states over, naked and covered in neon pink feathers. That might've been because he was also drunk at the time, and ordered ten shots of espresso, but the association is still there. Plus it's owned locally. The owner's nephew—Dustin? Daniel? Darcy?—was a senior when he started high school. Never really talked to the guy, but hey, it's all about supporting local businesses and local people, right?

Also it's cheaper than Starbucks.

"You guys still got the genmaicha?" He asks, even though he knows they do. He goes in five times a week and orders the same thing. "Get me a large."

And then he goes back to glaring at the screen.

He's narrowed it down to 1,000 possible matches, but apart from sitting with Scott and showing him every single picture until he recognizes one of them—well, actually, that's probably the only option left now. He has no way of knowing if the witch is a recent transplant or has been here years, no way of knowing what the tattoo—oh. Oh oh ooooh.

The tattoo.

The tattoo might be, if Stiles was lucky, the sign of the witch's coven. They do that, sometimes. As a sign of loyalty or as some way to tighten the bond between coven-mates. And if Stiles could find out the _coven_, then, well, this might take less time. He doesn't know whether to berate himself for not thinking of that sooner, or give himself a mental high five for thinking of it now.

He decides to just open google.

It takes maybe five minutes to find it—sometimes he really wants to kiss the people who made google's algorithm, seriously, what other search engine gets a hit off of 'witch coven + circle with floral pattern'—and when he does, he can't help but laugh a little evil laugh. And then promptly ignore the looks of confusion and slight terror that the others send him.

It's a coven tattoo, for one that's based in the next town over, maybe an hour's drive down the I-5. Led by one Steyna Lackhart, who, by the look of her picture on the official coven website ( ), is of the whole the-night-is-dark-and-full-of-shit-that-we-like-to-kill school of witchcraft; too much eyeliner, not enough sun, and a strange affinity for spiked clothing. Seems like a recent change in leadership as well. Like, three months recent.

That would explain the coven tattoo being all flowery and the website being full of death-to-all witch-haters propaganda. Covens don't change leadership unless their head-witch dies, and Stiles suspects that Steyna and her predecessor differed in their political ideologies.

He stops himself from digging deeper—he has a feeling that the previous head-witch died from unnatural causes, as well, but that really has nothing to do with his involuntary pack bond problem—and goes back to the witch registry, narrowing his results until he's left with ten witches. All of them Asian females; three from Japan; one from Korea; another from Thailand; all of them short; all of them Lackhart witches.

"Scott," he says. "Get over here. Tell me who you recognize."

"What? It's been thirty minutes, dude, you cou—" Jackson curls his lip when Stiles turns his laptop around.

"Ten matches, all belonging to the Lackhart coven over in Hanes Valley. The tattoo is the coven's sigil. Recent change in leadership. I haven't found anything about _why_ or _what_, but I've found a _who_, and really, that's the important part, right guys?" Stiles loves the old explainabrag. And maybe he's watched Community too many times if he's quoting Britta…and where the hell is Danny.

"I love you," Scott says, and practically jumps over the table to get a closer look at the portraits Stiles has queued. He leans over Jackson, eyes squinted and a lazy red. "But you're pretty sure this is the coven?"

"Yeah, I mean, if you recognize her it _helps_, but I'm pretty sure that if none of these are your match we could just go to the coven directly. And if that doesn't work than my detec—"

And then he freezes, because something is wrong.

Something always goes wrong. But this. This is wrong. This is one of his pack in danger. He's standing before he realizes he's moved, chair clattering to the floor behind him. He can feel his canines grow, he can feel the growl as it's wrenched from his throat. No, it's not a growl. It starts like a growl, but then it gets deeper, and darker, and more _powerful_, and then it's turning into a snarl and a whimper.

Everyone is here except Danny. Danny, he thinks. Danny is in danger. He needs to find Danny, damn it.

He jumps over the table in his rush to get to the door, and pulls the thing off its hinges, not stopping to see where it flies. The wolf in him doesn't even pause, snarling out an apology as he sprints through the store.

He knows this is bad. He's not in control. Of anything. His body is moving on pure instinct, his saner side forced to watch as he sprints across the street. He can't see what Danny can, but he can feel a hand around his throat; he can feel the pressure and the sharp prick of claws. And he feels the fear and the panic and the need to get to his pack member. It's a blind panic that he feels, much worse than anything he's ever felt when it comes to his wolf.

He smells Danny halfway across the street, and then hears his shallow gasps seconds later. So when he wrenches open the door to _Where the Hale is My Coffee_, he's already half out of his mind.

And then he sees Danny. And he's pinned to the wall by a _mass_ of a man—no, of a werewolf, an alpha werewolf—and his eyes are wide and scared, his hands held up, palms out, in a placating gesture. He spares a glance at the dozen or so innocent bystanders that are frozen and silent, backed against the opposite end of the shop. He recognizes Ben standing next to a dark-haired woman — werewolf - who seems a bit too casual in lieu of recent events.

All of that is happening as a roar rips itself out of his throat, and then he's grabbing the nape of Danny's attacker, and pulling, and throwing, and he watches, with satisfaction, as the man literally arcs through the air and breaks a bright blue loveseat as he lands.

He snarls a warning, stepping in front of Danny, widening his stance and trying to make himself look as big as possible (instinct is embarrassing sometimes, okay?), as the attacker immediately jumps back up, eyes wild and red for a second, but then everything stops, and the guys just looks…stunned.

The man is…attractive, to put it lightly. Which doesn't mean anything in the slightest. But it's there. So are his eyebrows. And his cheekbones. And his teeth. They're there too. Stiles never realized he was attracted to buck teeth, but whatever, life is a learning process and all that. And apparently one of today's many lessons is that you can be unexplainably pissed off at someone and attracted to them at the same time. So yay.

And the man…the man smells. He smells _good_. Like forest and baking bread and like how a really earthy tea tastes.

Stiles cocks his head, snarling again, but this time in confusion. He backs up a step, eyes going to the dark-haired woman as she rushes to help attractive-alpha-dude. Something about her seems familiar. She doesn't smell like a threat, which is probably why he's not attacking her right now.

"You attacked my pac," he hears himself say, but his voice is rough and deep and scratchy, and there's a warning growl running through it. Stiles cannot honestly believe he's doing this in the middle of a goddamned coffee shop. Having some weird-ass territory dispute while under an as-of-yet-unknown spell cast by a witch that may or may not want to harm him and his friends for reasons _also _unknown.

Tuesdays, man. Tuesdays suck.

"Stiles?" Ben seems a little surprised, to say the least. Stiles snarls at him, turns to the other alpha, who's still just staring, mouth now slightly agape.

"Not fucking now, Ben." Jackson and the rest of them rush in, finally, assessing the situation, probably deeming it ridiculous, and then rushing to attend to Danny. "It is _not the time_."

"You. Attacked. My. Pack," Stiles says again. He takes a step forward, his wolf bristling. "Who are you."

He smells that smell again. It needs a name because he can't describe it as forest-baking-tea. Or wait, maybe he can. It kind of sounds cool that way, actually. He takes a deep whiff, and, yup, it definitely is coming from attack-first-ask-questions later guy.

"I don't know what happened," the woman speaks, sounding amused. She goes to stand in front of the man, but Stiles snarls, and she stops. "We were just visiting our uncle, umm, Stiles, right? And your…pack member came in. And Derek here. Kind of went nuts, huh bro?"

"—te." The guy—Derek, why does that name sound familiar—whispers, eyes wide, staring at him. Stiles snarls again for good measure, but he's not angry enough for it to sound like anything other than a confused whimper. That fucking smell is just…_distracting_.

"I'm Laura Hale." The woman walks forward, offering her hand, albeit carefully, to Stiles. He tilts his head as she, very subtly, bares her neck. "This is Derek. I'd like to apologize on his behalf, however—"

"Your uncle owns this place," he interrupts, too alpha-ed out to really care about manners and protocol. He can smell—sense, really—that she's an alpha too. Stiles wishes that, for once, he'd meet some nice betas. Or an omega? Yeah? Maybe some humans? Humans are fun. Also less prone to getting into supernatural trouble. Also they don't smell so...distracting.

Stiles doesn't remember Derek smelling like this back in high school.

For fuck's sake how is no one else noticing it? He doesn't turn—can't—but he can feel his pack as they just stand there, confused and slightly embarrassed, watching as he makes a mockery of their whole species. They're not sniffing. Stiles is, though. It feels like he's smelling with everything he has. It's not even that the smell is a _good _smell (although it is), it's just that he _needs_ to smell it. He needs to _inhale_ that scent. Get it all over him. Roll in it. Bathe in—

Okay, woah. No.

Weird werewolf shit needs to stop pronto.

"Why does your brother smell like that? Why did he attack my pack?" Since Stiles can ask questions now, he assumes his fangs are gone. His claws are still out, though. And he's so_ tense_.

"_I don't know," _Laura growls, and Stiles is still angry enough to snarl back at her. His feet, his traitorous, traitorous feet, suddenly bring him to stand in front of Derek. Close enough that he swears he _feels_ that scent wrapping around him. Making it hard to breathe. Making it hard to _function_. His back is to Laura, who's now just as frozen and just as confused as the other innocent bystanders, but he's busy searching Derek's face.

It's a nice face.

"Talk," Stiles grunts. Then, five seconds later, "douche-nozzle."

"—ate." Derek grunts right back. Oh god, this is his life, having a conversation in _grunts_ with another alpha werewolf in the middle of a goddamned coffee shop. Derek takes a step forward, and his nostrils flare. Like _he's_ smelling something. Stiles knows he's missing something. _Knows_ this isn't normal.

"What, something you ate? Fuck you, ass. Danny doesn't even work here!" Scott calls out from behind him, and Stiles turns to snarl a warning.

"Do you not understand _not the time_, McCall?!" Jackson whines, his eyes wide as they go between Stiles and Derek. Nodding at his beta, a little proud, Stiles turns back, only to blink when Derek turns out to have gotten closer.

Much closer.

Like toes touching, personal-space-destroying, breathes-mingling closer.

And holy fuck his eyes are pretty.

"That smell," Derek says. No, he whispers. Between clenched teeth. Like he's _pissed_ about something. If anyone should be pissed about something it's Stiles. But Stiles is currently gaping because _damn_ why is he suddenly strangely aroused? Maybe it's the whispering. Because it sounds like it's wrapping around him in a naughty naughty blanket. "You smell it too."

Stiles can't see any fangs, so he guesses this is just how Derek normally speaks. He growls his frustration.

"That's not the _fucking_ point, _dude_. You attacked my pack member. I want to know why. I'll pay for some damages, but half of this is your fault, asshead."

"Mate," Derek grunts, and, although Stiles thought it was impossible, takes a step closer. Suddenly, it's hard to breathe. His chest is heaving, his heart is thundering in his ears, and his claws are digging into his palms so hard he can smell the blood. "I could smell…my mate. On him. And my wolf got…out of control. I didn't know what I was doing. I'm sorry."

"Mate," Stiles says. Well, gulps, really. Some…stuff…is coming back to him. Information stuff. Stuff that he learned from his dad, and romance novels, and supernatural studies, stuff. Like how puberty brings out the whole mate thing. And how Stiles hadn't really _gone_ through puberty until late freshman year. So even if, say, his mate had attended the same high school, they would have never recognized each other because Stiles body _wasn't ready_ (even thinking that is mortifying). How werewolves can smell it on you. The whole mate thing. "Oh crap."

* * *

**Good? Bad? Phantasmagoric?**

**Also, sorry for the initial lack of separators. New here and all, didn't know asterisks weren't supported. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ASTERISKS, HUH? WHAT DID THEY EVER DO TO YOU!?  
**

**And omg I've edited this 1000 times because it doesn't let you write website addresses in either.  
**

**Okay, sorry, I'll stop. Anyway...  
**

**To Be Continued...  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**This is fun!  
**

* * *

"So," Stiles starts, tapping his fingers nervously against the cup of tea in front of him. "How 'bout this mate thing, huh? Trippy, right?"

Oh god, someone kill him now.

Derek is seated across from him at one of _Where the Hale is My Coffee's_ tiny little tables, glaring at him as if it's _his_ fault they're—Stiles stops. They're what? Supposed to kiss? Fuck? Fall in love? Adopt unwanted were-children from developing countries? Kill each other?

And why had this happened today, of all days? Why this week? Why _ever_, actually.

"I've, uh, I've got some things to do so if we could just—" Stiles looks around for a clock, finding none. He does, though, meet the eyes of his pack, sitting at the other end of the café with Laura Hale, who seems nice, now that he's not alpha-ed out. Also, she made everyone new drinks—because Derek threw the other ones on the floor when he attacked Danny—for free. Of course, she also made Derek and him sit down and discuss _this_, when all Stiles wanted to do was run out the door, across the state, and maybe hop a plane to Antarctica.

He could do Antarctica. He likes penguins.

"You're an alpha," Derek finally says.

"Are you one of those "I-am-the-wolf-the-wolf-is-me" guys? Because I swear, if you start talking about submission and shit I _will_—"

"No! No…" Derek scratches the back of his head, his lips pursing, eyes squinting. "I just…didn't know."

"Huh? What does that have to do with anything?" Stiles really doesn't have time for this. He can tell that everyone is listening in on their conversation. They can feel his nervousness—he's too nervous to actually hide it from them, even if they weren't spelled. And he can feel their amusement. And he dislikes it. Intensely.

"I just…didn't know," Derek says.

"Well, that's just…great? I mean, I wouldn't expect you to. You were a senior when I was a freshman. I don't think we ever talked?" Stiles gets what he means, though. Everyone's supposed to 'know' an alpha when they see one. It's not a smell thing, although sometimes it is. It's just a…just a knowing thing. Like when you look at someone and _know_ they're popular, or _know_ they're too full of themselves. An intuition. It comes from being raised in a family of alphas, which most alphas are. It's all about confidence and being just _wolfy _enough so that you can intimidate others _without_ actually intimidating them. The humans, though, they think that Alphas are all about dominance, and the werewolves, well, they let them believe it. But it's not _just_ about dominance. Sure, for most of history, alphas were, ya know, _Alphas, _capital A. They ruled the packs; they lorded over the Betas and Omegas. But now, with the existence of _so many_ alphas, it's become more of an issue of biology. More of an issue of just how wolfy you get during the full moon.

Stiles, however, was raised by a human. So he never experienced life growing up as a wolf. His dad was—_is_—a great dad. And he did—is doing—the best he can. But being raised by a human meant that Stiles didn't even know he was, technically, an alpha until probably sophomore year of high school.

"We had…AP history together." Derek's face falls even more. Stiles blinks.

"Really?"

"Yeah. You sat in front of me, so I guess you just didn't, um, know... You were a…freshman, right? Special placement, or something," Derek mutters.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah." Stiles honestly does not remember anything about AP history with Derek. He should probably feel more guilty about that then he actually does. "But we didn't talk, right?

"No."

"Oh, well, okay then. Point made." Stiles takes a sip of his tea, looks around the coffee shop again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek staring at him. Just staring, face carefully blank, emotions seemingly under control. But he can hear his heartbeat, and it's thumping a quick staccato beat to rival his own. The pack-bond is threatening to override his other senses, but he still smells that delicious smell under all the nervousness and what is probably all-out terror. The forest-baking-tea smell.

It's almost gotten more intense since the little realization ten minutes ago. So intense it's kind of hard not to just crawl over the table—or, hey, he's a werewolf, the table's small, why not just throw it across the room—straddle Derek's lap and shove his face…well, anywhere, really. Although the man's neck looks uniquely appetizing.

"I just…you didn't seem like an alpha."

"Hmmmmm." Stiles tries to make that sound as disappointed as possible. Hey, if the dude's his mate—oh, who the hell is he kidding, he _is _his mate—he's gotta learn to deal with asshole!Stiles. "Well, I wasn't raised by wolves, so…"

"Your mother was an alpha." Derek seems confused now. Stiles is starting to get angry. No, he _is _angry. Not angry-angry, but decidedly irked, at the very least. Slowly, he takes his hands away from his cup, gripping them in his lap. On the best of days, he doesn't like it when his mother is brought up, but right now, with all that's happening…he just hopes Derek shuts up soon. "And your father is human."

"Yes," Stiles says between clenched teeth. Why, he wonders, is it so hard for the ass to accept that he's an alpha? Is he stupid? An idiot? Or maybe he's just a douche-bag. He sees Scott whispering something to Laura over where they're seated, doesn't even try to eavesdrop.

"Wasn't she…killed by witches?" Derek takes a sip of his drink—hot chocolate, for fuck's sake—and looks at Stiles with an expression he can't read.

He looks down, and his hands are clenched into fists, claws out, digging into his palms. Blood is dripping, and he can feel the panic and pain from the rest of the pack as they jump up, snarling and whining but unable to do anything because he won't let them. Laura jumps up too, but he ignores her as he stands. Slowly, very slowly.

"Okay, Derek," he says, voice calm. He knows, though, that Derek can sense his anger, can see his eyes go red, can hear his heartbeat and the slight lisp that comes from suddenly elongated canines, and he's probably confused about it all, from the way his face contorts. "This has been great and all, really. I mean, it's been such _fun_ catching up. But, uh, I've got some really important stuff to do, and, well, this is going nowhere. So…I'll call you, no need to call me, okay?"

And then he's outside before the ass can say anything else, his pack scrambling to keep up behind him.

* * *

It's only when they're back in _Good Books_, sitting around the backroom table, all of them silently staring at nothing, that Stiles allows himself to freak out. To get up and start pacing, hands coming up and running over his head in a nervous habit left over from his buzzcut days.

"He didn't mean anything by it, Stiles. Laura says Derek is an ass when he's nervous," Scott says, finally, after about five minutes, tone soft and calming. Stiles snarls.

"He's right, Stiles. You can't let this bother you. You've gotta…you've gotta pull it together, all right, dude? We need you for _this,_" Jackson adds. "You're the Al—if you panic we _all_ panic."

Stiles knows. Stiles _knows_ he shouldn't be so…_reactive_. But his mother _had_ been killed by witches. A coven of them, crazed for power, and his mother had just…been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Having his _mate,_ though, of all people, bring it all up again is just…it's just wrong. He hears a whimper, and only realizes it's him when Lydia gets up and wraps her arms around his waist.

Instead of pulling away, he buries his face in her shoulder, letting out a muffled whine and taking deep breaths to calm himself.

And sure, this is scenting, and considering that he's been _forced _into exploring his more wolfy characteristics this shouldn't make him feel better, but it's not like it's the first time he's done it, and it's calming, damn it, because Lydia smells like him, and Jackson, and Danny, and Allison, and Scott. She smells like _pack_, and it helps to override all the other smells that he doesn't want to think about.

No one says anything, but he can feel it as they all start calming down. Their control comes back, and the flashes of whatever they're thinking about—nothing concrete enough to understand, just feelings, mostly—start getting weaker and weaker, until all he's feeling is him.

And he feels calm.

"Okay," he mumbles, squeezing Lydia once in thanks and then moving past her to start pacing again. "So, one problem at a time, right, guys? Last I checked, Scott, you were going to see if you recognized any of the witches I found."

"Right! On it!" Scott rushes over to his laptop. He doesn't know why it doesn't bother him that Scott knows his password, but he lets it slide. More important things to do, and he'll remember to change it eventually.

"Have you found anything on the spell itself?" He asks the others.

"I've just been looking up the bond stuff," Allison answers first, leaning back in her chair. "To see what we should be expecting, but, I mean, it's all pretty much the obvious stuff."

"So, what's been happening pretty much? The scenting? And the…_feelings_? The…sucking thing. That's not the bond. That's the spell." Stiles keeps pacing. It helps him think.

"Yeah, pretty much. Just increased packiness." Allison grins. "It lets the wolf out to howl at the moon, is what one of the books said."

"Well that's just fantastic," Stiles deadpans, not impressed in the slightest. He turns, continues his pacing. "The spell? Anything? Lydia? Danny? Jackson?"

They shake their heads.

"Nothing, Stil—"

"It's her! That's her!" Scott jumps up, laptop in hand, and runs over to Stiles, shoving it in his face. Delicately, Stiles takes it from him and, _carefully_, places it on the table.

"This laptop," he says. "is my _life_. Do _not_ run with it, thank you very much."

And then he leans over and looks at their witch, a low growl rumbling through his chest as he does so.

Her name is Park Jae Soon, and she's on a working visa from South Korea. Stiles has always wanted to go to South Korea. The cuisine is delectable.

Anyway, Jae Soon, according to the registry, attended what Stiles assumes is a British boarding school for most of her life. Which explains the accent Scott was having a hard time placing. She works at a non-profit for homeless witches, which is nice and all, if she hadn't spelled him and his pack.

The girl seems innocent. Too innocent. Not even a parking ticket. And she lives in an affluent neighborhood maybe thirty minutes away from Stiles. If it's a cover, it's a good one. And if it's not, then maybe just talking to her will get this fixed.

Or maybe it's something completely different, and if they confront her, they'll just make their problems infinitely larger. Like getting an entire coven angry at them. Stiles shivers.

He really doesn't like dealing with witches.

"So, we've got a witch," he mumbles, downloading all the info and then closing down the registry. "We just need to find out the spell. Maybe see if we can stop it ourselves? She seems fine and all, but, uh, not really looking forward to the confrontation."

"We'll keep looking." Lydia nods, walks over to sit next to Jackson. "We haven't been through those books yet, so if you—"

And then the door opens. Okay, no, that's too much of a calm description for what happens. It's _slammed_ open. Much better. The door is _slammed_ open, and everyone, understandably, wolfs out. Except for Danny, of course, who hisses.

"Derek," Stiles greets. Because he's standing there, not wolfed out, which helps to calm the others down, but definitely…irritated. No, pissed. He's definitely pissed.

"You're under a _spell_?" He asks, sounding like he's severely disappointed in all of them. Heh, join the club, buddy. But, wait…

"How the hell did you find—"

"Sorry." Scott, of course. "We were talking with Laura while you two were—"

"—_bonding,_" Jackson finishes. Stiles sighs.

"Just…just keep researching. I'll be…I'll be back." He's so fed up with it all he's not even remotely entertained that he just quoted Terminator.

"Stiles." Allison stops him just as he's reached Derek, is about to start pushing him out the door. "Just, uh, stay calm?"

"Yup," he says, and then he_ does_ push Derek outside, closing the door behind him, ignoring the sudden nervousness at being separated from his pack.

"The spell, Stiles. You're under a _spell?" _Derek says again, grabbing his arm and pulling him closer. Well, okay then, Handsy McHanderson.

"Yes. It's fine, it's just a—"

"It's not _just a_ anything," Derek growls, and Stiles shivers. He looks at Derek—he really _looks_—and he sees worry and consternation and confusion clear on his face. Hell, underneath the trees and baking and tea he can _smell_ the fear, the fear for _him_. And he can hear his heart—it's scary that the rhythm is familiar to him even after such a short time—beating fast and hard.

Stiles forgets why he doesn't like Derek.

"Okay, okay," he uses the soothing voice that even works on Lydia when she's angry. "it's not…_nothing_. But we have it under control. I already found the—"

"Tell me everything." Derek's eyes go a bit wild, wide and intense, focused on Stiles.

He doesn't like it. Stiles, that is. He doesn't. He doesn't like it that just a look—_that_ look—can make him forget that not even thirty minutes ago it was Derek that was making him pissed off, _Derek_ that was making him lose control, _Derek _that was rudely reminding him of what he's managed to ignore for the entire day. He doesn't like Derek, and he doesn't like the whole mate thing, but, damn it, he _needs_ it.

Something in him _needs _to tell Derek, to reassure him, to make the nervous stutter in Derek's voice go away. He feels sorry for the guy, getting strapped with a mate that is, at the best of times, a bundle of sarcasm and snarky wit, and at the worst a panic attack on two legs.

"I—" Stiles scratches the back of his head, lets out a low, frustrated whine, only to blink in surprise when Derek returns it.

"I'm sorry for bringing up your mother," Derek says, voice low. He steps in closer, and the grip on his arm turns into a caress, callused fingertips flitting over his skin in a pattern Stiles can't place. "I, ahh. I just wasn't prepared for – " he waves his free arm in Stiles' general direction, "this. But I want to help you, Stiles. I _need_ to. And then we can…figure the rest out."

"I don't even know you, dude!" Stiles chokes out. He's just so _confused_. He doesn't even know the guy, not really, but something in him—something furry and red-eyed and full of itself—trusts Derek. Almost completely.

"I didn't even think I had a mate!" Derek's voice is raw and panicked.

Oh. Stiles never thought of that. Never thought of the possibility of not having a mate. He knew that Jackson and Lydia, and Allison and Scott, he knew they were rare, but he just assumed—

Okay, so yeah, he never really _wanted _a mate, but he always thought, eventually, he would get one. He wonders what that says about him. He wonders what that says about Derek.

Because what he said earlier is true—he doesn't know him. He knows that his parents were killed in a fire, knows that in high school he was both idolized and feared by most of the student population, knows that he left for New York after graduating, but that's it.

Stiles realizes, suddenly, that he _wants _to get to know him.

"Okay," he says, and, of their own volition, his hands come up to comb through Derek's hair. "okay, I'll tell you. But it's not really all that—"

"_Stiles_." Derek steps closer, plops his head down on Stiles' shoulder like it belongs there. He's holding himself still, almost like he can't believe he's doing this, almost like if he moves too much it'll remind him that this is _not_ the appropriate way to act with someone you met less than an hour ago. Briefly, Stiles feels Derek's hand squeeze his arm. "Just…talk."

"All right, all right." Stiles knows he should be embarrassed that they're all but wrapped around each other, but given the circumstances, he'll give himself a pass. "So, essentially, it's all Scott's — that's the guy with the uneven jaw and smoldering Latino eyes, by the way - fault."

* * *

"And tell me again _why_ you haven't gotten the police involved," Derek asks. Or says. Stiles wonders if Derek has ever even seen a question mark. He highly doubts it. He also wonders if Derek ever has to actually deal with other people, because his social manners are…well, they're deplorable.

They're not in the front of the shop anymore. After Stiles had explained the _situation _to him (between Derek's threats, whines, growls, and occasional need to shove his nose in the crook of Stile's shoulder and just breathe in deeply, it had taken a good thirty minutes, and that was _before_ Stiles mentioned the whole soul-sucking bit), Derek had forced his way into the backroom, sitting down in front of Stiles' laptop and pulling Stiles down to sit in the chair next to him.

And then he'd somehow forced Stiles to show him the file on Park Jae Soon, the Lackhart coven website, all without saying a single word to the others.

Rude. And now he's talking about the police. He _obviously_ has led a sheltered life.

Apart from the whole parents-getting-killed-by-crazy-anti-supernatural-dickwads thing.

"Dude, you're…_kidding_, right?" Danny says from across the room. Derek turns to him, eyes flashing. Stiles takes the opportunity to hit him over the head.

"Threaten Danny again and I swear I will enforce a no-touching rule." He smiles when Derek whines, then shrugs. "And plus, he's right. The police won't help."

"What do you mean they won't help?" He leans back in his chair, and Stiles takes the opportunity to take his laptop back.

"It would just start a new case, dude," Scott says, as always the most unhelpful, even if he is right. Everyone here except Derek, Stiles included, knows just how useless the human police force is.

"Technically, uh, Derek," Lydia starts talking, her voice in full-lecture mode. "There's no evidence of any wrong-doing. Police don't count forced pack-bonds as concrete evidence, and a psychic wouldn't pick up on anything. There's no way for them to get a warrant to question our witch, or even the coven, since there's nothing that links them to any wrongful spell-casting. So, yeah, we could go and file a complaint, but it would just get lost in the system."

Stiles nods. "And considering, ya know, that this is kind of time-sensitive, what with the soul-sucking and all—"

Derek growls.

"- considering that it's time sensitive, we really can't afford to just sit around and _wait." _

"Not to mention!" Allison points at nothing with her finger, face half buried in one of the older books that smell slightly of blood and mildew. "Not to mention that they can't hack into witch registries like we can. Or, for that matter, research like we can."

There's a moment of silence where everyone just nods in agreement, and then…

"_How often does this happen to you_?!" Derek actually sounds kind of horrified. He turns to Stiles, horror turning into anger. "And isn't your dad a cop!?"

"Sherriff, actually. Plus he's totally in agreement." Stiles pauses. "And it kind of happens a lot. I mean, most of the time it isn't our fault—"

"Except this time it's Scott's," Lydia points out.

"And so were the leprechauns," Jackson adds.

"And the fairies," Danny adds.

"And the _banshee_." Allison curls in on herself. Stiles shivers his disgust. Then looks at Derek to see his head resting on the table, shoulders hunched, body slumped in either resignation or exhaustion.

"Hey, hey," he says, rests a hand on Derek's back, which is…nice. It's hard and warm and it just…fits. He pauses, "have I formally introduced you to everyone yet?"

Derek shakes his head, lifts it so his chin is rested on the table, eyes on Stiles. "Just Scott, and I've decided he's an idiot and you should kick him out of the pack."

"Tried already." Stiles slides his chair closer, ignoring the looks—and the feelings—from the others. He knows they're both slightly disturbed and maybe a little bit happy. For him. Which is nice. Weird, but nice. "He's kind of a clinger."

"You love me, dude. You all love me," Scott mutters, head in his book, flipping through pages randomly.

"That's Allison. Lydia. Jackson. And Danny—eventually you should probably apologize for throwing him against a wall." Stiles catches the look Derek sends him, and grins. "But I can tell you're kind of overwhelmed, so not today."

He knows he's all but abandoned his research in lieu of trying to get Derek at least a little more comfortable, but he realizes it doesn't matter. Not to him; not to his pack. He can't feel any resentment from them, only understanding. His mate is confused, and horrified, and slightly panicked, and he needs to fix it before he can do anything else.

Has he mentioned how unfair this whole mate thing is?

"I have…a pack," Derek says softly. "I mean, there's my sister. You met her. And my uncle. But then there's, uhh, you'll probably meet them later. They're…well, I mean I haven't had _time_ to tell them about this, and Boyd is in San Francisco right now, but Isaac and Erica will want to meet you, to help, so…"

Stiles scoots closer when Derek trails off, his jaw clenching and unclenching nervously. They're not touching except for the hand Stiles has on Derek's back, but if either of them moved just a little bit, they would be flush against each other, and that in itself is comforting.

"If it's any consolation, this is as terrifying for me as it is for you," he whispers, even though he knows full well every single person in this room can hear him. "I mean, I usually try to stay clear of witches, and then meeting…you? Kind of an eventful Tuesday."

"I'm sorry about that," Derek whispers back. "About bringing _that_ up. I should…I should know not to do stuff like that."

Stiles knows he's talking about his parents and how they were killed. It's his eyes that give it away. And, okay, everything else. You would have to have lived under a rock to not know what happened to Richard and Amy Hale. Except, somehow, Stiles thinks that Derek got it worse. His parents weren't killed by some rogue spell. No, they were targeted for what they were by a group of religious zealots. The only reason Derek, Laura, and Peter survived was because they weren't even in Beacon Hills at the time. Not to mention Stiles had never really _known _his mother—she'd died when he was three. Derek had known his parents for eleven years before they were killed. He shivers, realizing just what it would mean if Derek _had _died. If Derek had been there that night—

He moves first, extending his arm from where his hand is splayed out on Derek's back to wrap around his shoulders. It's a natural move for Stiles—he does it with everyone—but with Derek it feels right. More than right. It feels good. It feels better when Derek leans back into it.

Stiles suspects that Derek is more down with this whole situation than he is, and he's surprisingly down with that.

Unless, of course, Derek turns out to be an ass. All bets are off if werewolf voodoo wants to force him to spend the rest of his life tied to a douchebag. He already has to deal with Jackson; he's not adding another one.

"It's not really a problem," he says after a bit. "I've kind of been a little more…_reactive _today."

"Reactive? Reactive!" Scott slams his book down, points at Stiles, not even pretending like he wasn't listening. "You slammed me up against the wall this morning, dude. You dug your stupid-ass claws into my _neck_."

"Because you deserved it. And he's right. We're all on edge. And this morning we hadn't even gotten the hang of controlling our, err, brains? What's the term, Lydia?" Allison scrunches up her nose.

"Pornographic images," Lydia drawls. She _drawls_. Stiles hates when Lydia drawls. Everyone looks at Danny accusingly, and he shrugs.

"I told you, I'm an incubus, we _live_ off of sex mojo, guys. Kind of hard _not_ to think about it."

"Oh no," Stiles says, because he's just realized that he found his _mate_ today. And having a mate, you know, generally means _mating_. Well, not mating as in _mating-mating_, but definite attempts, even though the physiology isn't there. He scrambles back from Derek, who seems to have realized the same thing, except his face doesn't look horrified, just…oh damn it, he looks _interested. _"No! Derek, no! Bad dog! No! Think about…think about, uh—"

"Stiles! Don't look at him!" Jackson has his hands over his eyes like _that's _going to do anything. "Remember the website! Breathe deeply! Think about Miss Donavue!"

"It took you this long to realize you guys are eventually gonna have sex?" Lydia snorts. "_Wow_, Stiles."

Stiles has his eyes closed, growls when a hand—he knows it's Derek—takes a hold of his. "I was a little distracted, _Lydia_, what with the soul-sucking witch."

"Oh, good!" Allison claps her hands. "Change of topic!"

"Yeah, good." Danny doesn't look happy about it, but whatever. "Are we so sure she's sucking our _souls_?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are we so sure it's our souls she's sucking, not, like," Danny shrugs, "something else."

"Because if anyone is the expert on sucking here, Danny boy, it's you," Jackson says. Stiles groans and thinks of Miss Donavue.

"Well, yeah. If you want to get technical." Danny leans back in his seat.

"So what's she sucking if not our,"Allison clears her throat, "souls."

"I dunno. Just putting it out there." Danny shrugs again. Stiles sighs, leans over to slide his laptop in front of him, and opens google.

"You know," he says as he goes to one of the more reputable online spell-pedias. "Hard-ass Harris is probably going to fire me. I didn't even call him this morning. I find it a little sad I don't mind."

"Harris won't fire you," Lydia returns, eyes the two of them as Derek hunches closer, wrapping his arm around Stiles and pulling him flush against him. "You're the only one who deals with his shi—_stuff_."

"And I think today was the day we were gonna go over sprite politics in Deaton's class," Stiles mutters. What? He likes Deaton. He's a cool dude. At least this is the first time he's missed any class this semester.

"Not relevant, Stiles. Shut up," Jackson growls, eyes back on the book in front of him, angrily flipping through pages.

"One year," Stiles grunts as he types in his search query. "I'd like _one year_ to go by without fearing for my life."

* * *

"All right," Allison says an hour later, and everyone looks up from whatever they've been doing. In Stiles' case, it's clicking through any spell tagged with 'sucking.' A lot of NSFW stuff on that one. A lot. He hopes Miss Donavue doesn't mind that he uses her as an arousal deterrent. "So there's good news, and then there's the bad news. Which one—"

"Just tell us, Allison," Lydia growls, mouth full of one of the pastries Derek had sent Jackson over to WHMC for thirty minutes ago. They'd come free of charge courtesy of Laura, who Stiles has decided he likes. Anyone who gives him free sweet things gets a plus five likeability bonus.

Well, since Derek was the one that suggested it, Stiles _supposes_ that bonus goes to him as well. It doesn't help that, for the last hour, the man has had his nose buried in spell book after spell book, growling every minute or so and, somehow, pulling Stiles closer every time he comes across a particularly disturbing spell.

It's sickeningly cute. _Cloyingly _cute. And damn it, apparently Stiles likes it. Likes it a lot.

"So, it's not our souls that are being sucked," she says, then hesitates, getting a distinctly Allison look on her face. This one says no-one-is-going-to-like-what-I-have-to-say-next. "It seems, if this is the spell that, uh, she put on us, that she's sucking uh…minutes."

There's a long, very drawn out, very _telling_ silence. Before Stiles can scramble up and jump over the table to grab the book that Allison is gripping between white-knuckled hands, Scott does it for him.

"What," Stiles says very carefully, "does that mean."

"It means the witches are using us!" Scott whines, face scrunched up in his betrayed puppy face look as he reads. Next to Stiles, Derek growls, gets up, and starts to pace.

"What?" Danny asks. "Can someone just…explain?"

"Give it," Stiles says, and he holds his hand out. Scott continues reading, and Stiles hears himself growl. "_Give it, Scott_."

A second later, the book—a leather bound tome that is strangely heavier than it looks and smells like…eggs—is in his hands, and he's frantically reading as Derek leans over his shoulder.

"It's a power spell," Derek grunts out a minute later, and Stiles feels his hands come to rest on his shoulders. It _is_ a power spell. A power spell that isn't designed, necessarily, for werewolves, but for anyone, really, that the witches can trick or threaten into agreeing to it. It's for really powerful spells—for when the coven wants to do something, but doesn't have enough power to do it. So they get a person, or a couple of people, or a _pack_ of werewolves, and they take away a little bit of their life span. A minute here, an hour there, a month, or, in some cases, a fucking _year_.

Stiles slams the book down, realizing that he's said most of that out loud when everyone just stares at him, eyes wide, a little lost, a little bit panicked. He growls, calming a little when Derek's hands squeeze his shoulders.

"So that's just fine and dandy," Jackson growls. "But what the hell are we going to do about it? It's the whole coven, right, that's using us? Not just the witch?"

"Has to be." Lydia drums her fingers against the table top. "Binding spells like that are almost impossible to pull off alone. And her file said she's not a particularly high level witch, so…"

"They want more power for something," Stiles says. "We need a motive. And we need to figure out if there's a way to break it without ever actually having to confront them. Or a way of getting however long we've already lost back."

Stiles is suddenly tired. It's early afternoon, and already, he's tired. Really tired. Like, collapsing on the nearest surface big enough to support him horizontally tired. But he can't collapse, just yet, because he almost definitely does not have the _time_. It's being _sucked_ away by fucking witches, for fuck's sake.

"At least it's not definite that we're gonna die if we don't figure this out by tonight," Jackson blurts out, and Stiles sinks further into his chair, closing his eyes against the panic and barely contained fear that is wafting from his pack. He takes a deep breath, in and out through his mouth, and it helps a little. Not much, because now he can _taste_ it, but enough that he's not going to sink into a puddle of hopelessness and despair _just_ yet. And then Derek's hands start kneading into the tense muscles of his neck, and he almost purrs.

Can werewolves even purr? He's never purred before. Has never heard any werewolf he knows purr. A couple of werecats, but no werewolves. He wants to purr, though.

"No, no it's not. But that shit was painful this morning, and I'd rather not go through it again," he says, eyes still closed, voice a little rough. "So, motive means more research. I'm thinking we can take this elsewhere, since I don't think Miss Donavue will mind if we take _that_—" He points blindly at where he remembers throwing the spell book. "with us."

"All right…" Danny says. "I'll head home and get my laptop. Meet you at your house in, say, an hour?"

Stiles opens his eyes, looks at Danny. "You're gonna-?"

"I think it's kind of necessary," he says with a shrug. "Plus, I've made a few tweaks, and I'm pretty sure no one will even know it's me doing the hacking."

"I'll take the others around to get their stuff," Jackson says, since he was the only one, apart from Danny, that actually _drove _to Stile's house last night. Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek staring down at him, eyes furrowed in concern—holy shit he doesn't even want to think about why his heart does a little pitter-patter at that—and grins.

"You'd better go check on your sister, Derek," he says. "I'll be fine at my house, and, when this is all over, I'll ca—"

"_No_."

"No?"

"No," Derek says again. Or growls. Or whatever. "I'm calling Laura. I'm calling the rest of my pack. But I'm doing it when we get to…when we get to _your_ house. And I'm staying there. With you. Until this ends. I'm _in this_, with you, until it's over. And then…and then after…" Derek trails off, clearing his throat and looking to the side.

Stiles is not exactly _averse_ to the idea. It's just…well, what is it? He's nervous, maybe. A little scared, because if Derek goes to his house—if Derek meets his _dad_—then all of this is _real_. The mate thing, not the time-sucking thing. Well, maybe the time-sucking thing too. Stiles does _not_ gulp. He doesn't allow himself. But he _wants_ to gulp.

"You know my dad is the sheriff, right? And that I live with him?"

"What does that have to do with anythi…" Derek trails off as the others start giggling, even if they are in the process of filing out the door. Stiles gives them the middle finger, but his eyes don't leave Derek's face.

"He's not back until, uh," Stiles squints as he tries to remember what his dad said to him this morning. "nine, I think. But he'll want to know who you are."

Derek's hands freeze, his whole body stills, and Stiles can suddenly feel the nervousness emanating off him. "And…what are you going to tell him?"

Stiles gets up as he hears the bell over the shop door ring, and then Jackson and the others discussing Derek and him as they make their way across the parking lot to his car. He doesn't tune in to what they're saying—it'll probably piss him off. He goes to grab his laptop case and bag, juggling the contents until he can fit everything inside.

"What do you want me to say?"

There's a pause, long enough for Stiles to zip his bag up, put the strap over his shoulder, and walk back over to pick up the spell book, and then…

"I'm going to tell my pack that I met my mate today, and he's in trouble, and it would be nice, if they aren't too busy, if they would help me," Derek says, voice quiet and a little unsure. Stiles gulps this time. He allows it.

"O—Okay then. I guess…I guess I'll probably introduce you as my mate." Stiles grips the book, fingers tracing over the swirling patterns on the cover. "Dad…he understands all that stuff. But he might, you know, give you the whole 'what-are-your-intentions-towards-my-son' speech. And…and when he does," Stiles winces, because, even though he _has _to say this, it's a little too honest. Stiles doesn't do honest. Not most of the time. Not with things like this. That matter. It makes him uncomfortable. "You don't have to say anything. I mean, we haven't even, you know, decided if this is going to _work_ or not. We don't really even _know_ each other. And I've heard that if you decide you're not a good match before you, ahh, do the nasty, it's possible to—"

He doesn't say anything else. Not because he doesn't want to. No, it's just a little hard talking when there's a tongue in your mouth and surprisingly soft lips pressed against yours like they're trying to devour you, when hands are gripping your hips, hard and _possessive_, pulling you flush against a furnace of a chest, and everything you're thinking just kind shrivels up against the _heat_ of it all.

Stiles is surprised, of course, at first. But his body quickly realizes that this new predicament is a _good_ predicament, and does all the work for him, while his brain just kind of whimpers and crawls, haltingly, to a dark corner. Kind of like that life-alert commercial, except without the old people.

His hands rove across miles and miles of clothed muscle, flitting everywhere because they can't decide where to grab. He presses himself against Derek, moaning when his thigh presses in between his legs and the fit is just so _right_, and then moaning again when Derek shudders into his kiss and, almost involuntarily, cants his hips forward.

"_Dere-"_ he whimpers—_whimpers_—and then Derek's tongue is in his mouth, and he can't do anything but close his eyes and respond as enthusiastically as possible. Because _holy fuck_ does the man know how to kiss. He moans when Derek nips at his lips, moves to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw and neck, human teeth skimming over skin and biting down just hard enough to make him shiver.

Stiles is more than seventy percent sure this is a wolf thing, the biting that is, because the wolf in him is practically howling in pleasure, and Derek isn't even drawing any blood. Stiles wonders when he started thinking of drawing blood as being better than _not_ drawing blood, but whatever. The rest of him just wants Derek to shove a hand down his pants and make him come, but the sane part (okay, honestly he doesn't know where the sane part fits in, because there are a lot of _parts_ to him) would like to try having an actual _relationship_ before getting familiar with another person's genitals, for once.

He likes it, the feel of Derek against his neck, the way his mouth just kind of finds the junction between Stiles' neck and shoulder and _fits_ there. But he likes the feel of Derek's lips on his, too, so he grabs the man by his hair and pulls him back and when Stiles kisses him, it's a little slower than he imagined it, a little lazier, it makes his heady go fuzzy and bright, and it makes Derek shudder. Stiles loves it when Derek shudders. His hands come up to skim up and under Stiles shirt, rubbing spirals up and down his flanks, making the skin there break out in goose bumps.

It's a lot of sensation, which explains, kind of, why he doesn't hear his pack members until they're at the door to the back room, screaming at Derek and him to stop because they're getting _images_.

* * *

"Derek, stop staring," Stiles growls, hands gripping the wheel of his jeep. Not in anger. No, in barely contained sexual _frustration_. Because only in his life is it possible to be cock-blocked by a pack-bond/time-suck spell. Only _him_. Stupid pack. It wasn't like Derek and him were doing anything NC-17. They'd acted like they'd been halfway to stripping each other, what with the wide eyes and high-pitched pleading.

Of course, in a way, it was kind of adorable, because he'd gotten to see Derek _blush_. He had actually _blushed_, and he had _ducked his head_, and it had been made him all the more irresistible. He sighs as they come to a red light, glancing over at the man in question with raised eyebrows.

"You're staring, dude."

"Sorry about…earlier," Derek says. "I just, uh…"

"Nothing to be sorry about." Stiles snorts. "If you remember, I was kind of invested too. So, you know, no need to apologize."

"Not what I meant. I mean…" Derek scratches the back of his head, does something with his eyebrows that makes Stiles wants to trace them with his fingers. And maybe his tongue. "I mean, uh, about forgetting you're tied to the others."

"Oh, right, _that_." Stiles shrugs. "At least I got back at Scott for doing this to us in the first place. Plus, when this first started, he was thinking some pretty graphic images of what he and Allison do, so…"

Derek laughs, and, oh god, there are those teeth again. Stiles' hands grip the steering wheel harder. _Do not jump the man_, he thinks. _Do not jump the man, do not jump the man. Do. Not. Jump. The man. _

He thinks the kiss—that was so much more than a kiss, holy shit that was like the make-out session to end all make-out sessions—has made him even more attune to the fact that Derek is his _mate_. Maybe it was like a seal being broken or something (like in Supernatural, and the final key to complete obsession is the zipper of Derek's jeans), because it's becoming an act of discipline not to think about how Derek looks naked, sweaty, laying in his bed, eyes half-mast, and mouth open, looking at _him_—Stiles smells his own arousal, and quickly thinks of Hard Ass Harris firing him.

It's not fast enough, though, because he sees Derek's nostrils flare and his eyes get dark.

"Sorry," Stiles says, although it comes out sounding like a whimper.

"No you're not." Derek's voice is rough.

"Okay, no, but not the time, nor the place, right?" The light turns, and Stiles pays attention to the road. "Which sucks, because I'm just gonna say that you're, uh, a fantastic kisser. Five out of five stars, would kiss again."

Derek laughs, and _yes_, he's blushing again. But then his smile falters, and he clears his throat. "I shouldn't have kissed you, though. I want to do this right."

"…this?" Stiles turns into his neighborhood.

"You keep saying we don't know each other," Derek starts. "but I want to. I want to know you."

"…oh." Stiles hates that his voice is suddenly ten octaves higher. "Well…uh."

"I just—you were talking about denying it, and I kind of panicked."

"…_oh_."

"Yeah, oh." Derek smiles at Stiles. It's not a huge smile, but it's genuine, and it makes something in Stiles' chest constrict. He feels like there is definitely some emotional baggage behind that statement, behind those eyes that are staring at him as if Derek is _daring_ him to figure him out. He'll take a rain check, for now, because _reasons,_ but it kind of terrifies him that he _wants_ to figure him out.

The five minutes it takes to get to Stiles' house are silent, and then they're pulling in the driveway and Stiles is parking to the side so his dad has space to pull his car in next to the jeep. He's pretty sure they're not going to be leaving the house today, and he doesn't want to have to come back out and make space for his dad later. They all learned back in high school to _never_ confront the enemy before you have all the facts.

And it is so horribly true that they _do not_ have all the facts.

When they're inside, and Stiles is fastidiously _not_ paying attention to how Derek is staring, intensely, at the pictures of him set around the living room and hanging on the wall, he makes a beeline for the kitchen, and sets his bag down on the table.

"You want something to eat?" He asks as he opens the fridge, knowing full well that Derek is still in the living room, leaning over the side table to look at the picture dad had taken of him at college graduation. He hadn't wanted to go—no point, he thought at the time, because he was technically going to be in school for at least eight more years—but Lydia had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't, so the evidence exists.

"I'm good," Derek says, and he hears him moving, slowly, around the other side of the couch to examine the other pictures his dad refuses to burn. Stiles grumbles and gets himself a coke.

"Did you want to call your pack?" Stiles asks after he takes a swig, hearing Derek at the kitchen entrance and turning around to smile at him.

"Yeah. I better. Is it okay if I do it outside?" Derek takes his phone out of his pocket, points at the door.

"No problem. I'll get started doing…" Stiles waves his hand at his bag. "_stuff_."

Derek nods, takes one last look at Stiles' grad picture, and walks out the door.

* * *

"I'm never forgiving you, by the way," Lydia says ten minutes later when she and the rest of the pack file in through the front door. The look she gives him is more than disgust. It's betrayal. Stiles sticks his tongue out.

"I'm a wolf with wolfy needs, Lydia. And I'm your _Alpha_. So, really, if I _want _to engage in some serious hanky-panky with a willing and, may I add, _delicious_, partner, I will."

"Are you punishing me?" Scott whines as they make their way towards the kitchen, where Derek is already seated, having come back inside five minutes ago looking perturbed. They all kind of freeze when they see him, and Stiles gets flashes of him and Derek plastered against each other in _Good Books_.

Heh. This is actually kind of amusing.

"Yes." Stiles nods, and goes back to where he's been doing nothing at all in front of his laptop.

Next to him, Derek grunts. Since he came in, he's been silent, his eyebrows furrowed like…like furry little caterpillars. Stiles hasn't had time to finagle whatever's wrong out of him.

"Did you find…anything?" Jackson asks, plopping down across from him.

"No, I haven't been looking," Stiles says, looks up at Danny, who gestures at the laptop he's currently taking out of his bag. There's silence as everyone sets up, and by the time they're done, the kitchen looks like one of those high-tech FBI stakeouts. The ones in movies, where there are cords and adaptors and various gadgets everywhere.

It would be neat, really, if it weren't so depressingly normal for Stiles.

Derek, though, seems to find it entertaining, if the half-terrified, half-amused expression on his face is anything to go by.

"Danny, you concentrate on the heavy stuff—the Lackhart coven, maybe dig deeper and see if the Park girl is actually an international witch spy and we're all screwed or something. And everyone else…anti-spell duty, pretty much," Stiles says when everyone looks at him expectantly. When they blink, he shrugs. "I'm pretty sure it's more of a priority to figure out _how_ to get rid of the spell than _why_ we're under said spell in the first place, and since Danny is the prodigy hacker…"

"Yeah, okay." Allison sighs and opens her laptop. The others follow, and Stiles sighs, leaning back in his chair for a bit. If this weren't a matter of life and…well, less life and/or death, he would say that he's starting to get bored.

Or is it frustrated. Because really, he _likes _when his life is boring. When it's completely devoid of any suspicious supernatural _situations_; when it's just him, and his friends (now _pack)_, doing college things and living life.

He sighs again.

"Did you manage to reach your pack?" Stiles asks a little later, when he's stared at his computer screen for maybe a minute. Derek, the only one without a laptop, and therefore, the only other one staring into space doing nothing, jumps a bit and looks at him.

"Yeah. Laura told Peter—that's my uncle. He owns the coffee shop. I called Isaac, and Erica was with him, she overheard everything. And then Boyd." He pauses. "They're…they're really happy, actually. They want to meet you, uh, eventually, but I told them to wait."

"They can come over tomorrow, if they're free." Stiles shrugs when Derek just looks at him. "What? I'm curious."

"I think they'll like that," Derek murmurs, and goes to type something in to his phone. Stiles smiles, turns to his computer, and starts doing some google-fu.

* * *

And so, they research. Danny makes whooshing noises occasionally, which makes Stiles thinks the dude is having way too much fun doing whatever it is that he's doing. Probably taking a breather and hacking into the NSA database just in case they're watching him, but whatever, as long as he finds something that helps them. Scott and Allison coordinate their searches, whispering sweet nothings to each other. And Jackson and Lydia stare at their screens, practically sitting in each other's laps, typing things and glaring when they reach a dead end.

It's what usually happens, except with the pack bond, and now Derek, it's a little…different. Not bad different, _hell no_, Stiles is coming around to this mate thing. He's not a stubborn person by nature, so it doesn't really bother him that the coffee incident was, what, three, four, hours ago, and already it's hard trying to convince himself that this is something he can get out of.

It's just different, because usually, he feels like the odd one out. The outlier. Like he's observing everything from a distance. But now…now he's _invested_. Now he has something—someone—to live for. Something to look forward to. And while it's not like he's usually apathetic about these things, this time he just wants the problem _gone_.

Gone, so he can move on with his life. Which will hopefully, soon, devolve into ridiculous amounts of hot, sweaty, naughty sex with a certain werewolf, and nothing else.

Plus, now, there's the whole bond thing, and while that is _definitely_ going to be temporary, it's just kind of…interesting. He can feel the pack settle, like a weight on his shoulders has been lifted; he can feel their frustration; their anger; their amusement. And, although they've all become pretty much experts at either _not_ thinking of certain things, or blocking the others from sharing those thoughts, he sometimes gets images flashing through his mind that have a distinct signature to them; a distinct _taste_. Jackson's images taste brash and loud. Lydia's are soft and cunning. Allison's are brave and determined. Scott's taste loyal and eager. And Danny, well, mostly those just taste like sex.

Which is doing nothing except making it harder to not jump Derek.

Derek, who he doesn't _feel_ like the others, but there is _something_ between them. Something that's been getting stronger since the coffee shop, and the kiss. Something that feels _suspiciously_ like a bond. He doesn't have to sniff to know that Derek is tired, frustrated, and a little scared. He doesn't have to look to know that his eyes are drooping from tiredness, even as he uses the laptop Stiles had stolen from his dad's room to do his own research, that his body is stiff, and that he's having as hard of a time not touching Stiles as Stiles is not touching him.

Stiles knows about mate-bonds. Hell, he has to deal with two mated couples on a daily basis. He knows that it's a connection, and that what he's feeling now is only the beginning. Honestly, he doesn't know whether he wants to panic or celebrate. Maybe something in between.

He lets his mind roam, then, as it usually does when he researches. He lets the connections buzz through his head and lead him into new searches. He doesn't talk—not like he usually does—he just stares and types and clicks and, occasionally, growls. He takes note of the things that are important, things that could help them out, and then he moves on.

It isn't too surprising then, that when he looks up next, it's dark and Lydia is getting up to turn on the lights around the house. It's not like they _need_ the light, but there's something about a softly lit home in the night that's kind of comforting, and everyone appreciates it.

"Steyna Lackhart is evil, by the way," Danny suddenly blurts out, and all heads turn towards him.

"Interesting," Stiles says, and, yup, that's definitely a growl in his voice. Of course it's an evil witch. When is it not an evil witch. "I'm starving. How about Thai for dinner? And then we can all discuss…_this_…over dinner."

He silently dares anyone to argue with him.

Thankfully, they don't.

* * *

"Gimme gimme." Stiles is sitting, cross-legged, on his chair at the kitchen table, laptop temporarily closed and set to the side so that none of the food that arrived five minutes ago destroys his baby. He holds his arm out towards Scott, who, for the last minute, has been hogging the eggplant stir fry.

Stiles is, notoriously, greedy when it comes to food. He doesn't care. He's a growing werewolf, and he needs his goddamned eggplant stir fry. Scott slides the carton halfway across the table, and Stiles grins, using his chopsticks to pull it the rest of the way.

"All right; evil Lackhart," Stiles says as soon as the veggie goodness is in his mouth, pointing his chopsticks at Danny. "Go."

Next to him, Derek kind of snorts. Or maybe he chokes. Stiles can't tell the difference, since he has a mouth full of pad thai that is making his cheeks bulge out comically. Or is it enticingly.

He sighs.

"Yeah, so, evil Lackhart." Danny holds a summer roll in one hand, and turns his laptop around with the other. On it is Steyna's Lackhart's file.

The FBI file.

As in Federal Bureau of Investigations.

Stiles doesn't know why he's surprised. He shouldn't be surprised.

"Five counts of unlicensed curse release in a public space. Three counts of battery. Seven counts of manslaughter. Spent seven years in prison for those. Suspected involvement in an international were-horse slavery ring. She was brought in for questioning when her mother—that's the previous coven leader, Layla Lackhart—was killed in a suspicious gardening accident. They didn't find anything though." Danny takes a breath, changes the page. "The CIA and the NSA both have files on her, and so do the uncannies—"

"The uncannies?" Derek leans in and whispers. Stiles leans closer, not caring that his breath smells like garlic and lemongrass.

"The DSOI—Department of Supernatural Occurrence Investi—"

"I _know_ who the DSOI are, Stiles, why do you call them the uncannies?" Derek scoots even closer, and Stiles suspects this is just a way to steal his eggplant stir fry. He glares suspiciously at him, bringing the carton in closer to his chest, but Derek just looks curious. Danny is talking about how Layla Lackhart died—heart attack that got her impaled on a rake—so he's not missing much.

"Because they're _uncannily _good at being a pain in the ass." He shrugs. "Danny coined the term. Mostly, I think, because they have some security that even he can't crack."

"Cute," Derek says, and steals some eggplant. _Damn him_.

"—so, apparently, then, Steyna and Layla had a falling out about a year ago—when Steyna got out of prison—about the next heir to the Lackhart coven. And then this happens." Danny shrugs. Stiles doesn't feel too bad about missing most of what he had been saying. Especially when Derek slings an arm around his shoulders and holds his carton at an angle so Stiles can get some pad thai.

"So, Layla was all about being Glenda the good witch," Jackson says through a mouthful of…of something. Stiles forgets what he ordered. There are _a lot_ of cartons on the table, though. "And Steyna's pretty much all about world domination. Thanks, McCall, really, for dragging us in to this."

"Hey!" Allison growls.

"That's not the important part," Danny interrupts. "I looked into Park Jae Soon as well, and it looks like Steyna is blackmailing her into being part of the coven. Her and a couple of the others, too, actually, all of them non-nationals, all of them average to below average on the power scale."

"And that's where we come in," Stiles says.

"Yeah, I'll send you the specifics, but I'm pretty sure Steyna—or, well, Jae Soon, but I'm pretty sure Steyna is making her do it under threat of death or something—didn't tie us to the whole coven, just the ones she's blackmailing."

"Why?" Derek asks.

"Because her phone records show that the only people she's been in contact with, at least on her _official_ phone, is everyone in her coven _but_ the ten girls I think she's blackmailing. They're not part of the actual coven, they're being…_used _for something-"

"Something that can't have any feds getting curious, which is why all of them are foreigners, and why all of them are not extremely powerful," Lydia finishes. Everyone nods.

"Something though, that requires _a lot_ of power, which is, _definitely_, where we come in."

"She's using us for the power, so she can't be traced," Jackson growls.

"I thought they couldn't do that. Have a …coven within a coven." Scott scrunches his nose as he chews a particularly large and crunchy piece of broccoli.

"It's…_coven-ception_." Stiles can't resist. He can't, okay? And he doesn't want to.

"Apparently they can." Lydia shrugs. "Unless Danny is completely wrong, and that's never happened before, so, yeah, I think it's possible."

"So," Allison leans back, hands on her belly. Stiles knows she's not done eating, just waiting until she gets her second wind. "we have a coven within a coven, ruled by a blackmailing anti-everything-but-witches witch, using us, plus a gaggle of supposedly innocent foreigners, to do something mysterious, illegal, and probably nefarious?"

"…Yeah. That's about right." Stiles decides. "You forgot the part where she's _literally _taking away minutes of our lives to fuel said nefarious spell, but yeah, that's it."

"…I have an exam tomorrow." Jackson pouts. "Do you think I can use that as an excuse to not go?"

"What's it in? And you have exams for master's classes?" Stiles makes a disgusted noise. "And _that's_ why I didn't go into the sciences."

"You didn't go into the sciences because you once blew up half of the high school chemistry lab, Stiles," Lydia sighs, rubbing Jackson's shoulder. "And it's not an exam so much as a _proctoring _of an exam."

"Seriously." Stiles doesn't know why he hadn't had a problem with this last night. He must've been more tired than he had thought. Maybe he should start paying more attention when Jackson talks….

_Naaaah_.

"If nothing happens, then, yeah, totally, go. It'll just be two hours, right?" Danny shrugs, and everyone nods.

Stiles remembers that he needs to e-mail his professors, Miss Donavue, and Hard-Ass Harris about missing class and work for the foreseeable future. He doesn't have any assignments due for next week, except for the essay he'd been working on for Dr. Deaton, but he can get an extension, 'cuz Deaton's a cool dude. He's probably going to have to miss for the rest of the week, though. At least until Friday, and maybe they'll have a handle on this by then.

He really hopes he takes care of it by Friday.

And then maybe he'll take all weekend to just sleep.

Yeah, that sounds fantastic.

He opens his laptop, standing to grab a summer roll as he goes to his e-mail. And then he shoves it in his mouth and starts typing, only he forgets about it as he does so, and it's left hanging there.

And then he smells arousal. Distinct arousal. Coming from right next to him. Where Derek is sitting. He freezes, turns his head, and sees that Derek has his head in his hands, taking in deep breaths.

"Will you. Just eat. _It,_" he hears Derek mutter, and then he starts thinking about it, and he wants to laugh, but he can't, because there's a summer roll (cough phallic symbol cough) in his mouth, so he starts choke-laughing, because it's funny, and also because he's a little bit turned on, to be honest.

"No!" Danny stands, points at Stiles. "You will not ruin summer rolls for me, do you hear, Stilinski?! You. _Will not_. "

Stiles eats it, although, admittedly, it's kind of hard—_heh, hard_—because he can't get the thought of getting on his knees in front of Derek and just…

"Stiles!" Lydia sounds affronted. "Bad Alpha!"

"You're an alpha too." Stiles sticks his tongue out, hears Derek groan again, and reaches out to pat his back. "It's okay, big guy, I _am_ pretty irresistible."

"Stiles!" Scott puts his hands in front of his eyes, like that's going to stop the images. Stiles suspects that his pack has a harder time blocking him because he's the _Alpha _alpha. The, ahem, alfalfa. Then he remembers that they have yet to talk about what the others have been researching, and sighs.

"Speaking of alpha's, did you guys find anything about the spell?"

"_Thank you,_" Jackson says, emphatically. Danny sits down, clearing his throat.

"We didn't," Allison says. "Nothing that the book doesn't already say."

"I might've — " Lydia breaks off with a gasp, gripping the table hard enough that Stiles would hear wood cracking, if he wasn't having a panic minor attack of his own.

Because, of course the witches decide that now is the time to use them again. It's the sucking, again. The all-consuming, panic-inducing, please-knock-me-out-so-I-don't-have-to-go-through-this-again sucking. And, oh god, this time it's worse. It's not just because they know what it's _doing_ to them, now. No, the pain is actually worse. It's agony. It's like he's being ripped from himself. Like claws are scraping against his raw organs, stabbing into his chest, grabbing his heart and _squeezing_. His vision goes white, and he feels himself slide down his chair and collapse on the kitchen floor. His claws, because he's turning, the pain is so bad, scrape against the wood with every little tremor that convulses through his body.

"Sti—" He hears Derek yelling, who must be panicking, surrounded by six convulsing bodies, but he can't feel him. He can't get past the pain and his own panic enough to even stop himself from going full alpha. He can't even fucking _see_. All he knows is that, at some point, he starts sobbing. But he's already turned, so the sobbing is an inhuman sound. Like, literally, the sound of a dying animal. Low huffing growls, and high, screaming wails. Hot liquid tears fall down his face, err, muzzle. But that's it. That's all he knows. That and the pain. Everything else is white and hot and fuzzy.

And it doesn't end. Not for a long, long while.

* * *

**Cliffhanger! Mwahahahahaaa (and, omg, I've just discovered the glory of the _horizontal lines_)**

**Thanks for all the favorites and follows, lovelies! Feel free to leave reviews. Or love letters. Or an essay on the mating habits of the male sloth bear. Anyway,  
**

**To Be Continued...  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Action! **

* * *

He wakes up, and everything aches. That's the first thing Stiles realizes. The second thing he realizes is that past the ache, past the pain, past the memories that come back to hit him right where it hurts, he feels…warm. Warm, and good—at least, better than he was—and…and safe. He doesn't open his eyes for a bit. He just stays there. Lies there. Draped half over something that feels suspiciously like a lap. His head resting on what is probably a thigh and his arms entangled around a waist. Someone's hand is running through his hair, soft and rhythmic and calming, and there are bodies pressed against his; a leg over his ankle, another arm draped over his back, a head using his shoulder as a pillow.

Stiles takes a deep breath in, inhaling pack and Derek and home and safety, undercut with worry and fear and relief that what happened is over. He takes note of the heartbeats around them—all but Derek's and his are slow as they sleep—and then he opens his eyes.

"We're on my bed," he says, or tries to say. His voice slurs, though, and his head really _hurts_, so it comes out sounding more like a groan. The hand in his hair—Derek's—stills for a moment, and then continues.

"Yeah," Derek says. He sounds tired. Stiles swallows, wraps his arms around Derek's middle and squeezes. In gratitude. And relief. And just because he really needs a hug right now.

"You carried us up." Stiles chuckles when someone wraps themselves around his leg. His face is smushed in Derek's thigh, though, and he doesn't want to move it, so he doesn't see who. It feels like Danny.

"I—you—all of you were changing and I thought-" Stiles can practically feel as Derek's jaw clenches. "I thought it would be the best thing to do. I didn't know what else—"

Stiles squeezes. "Thanks. It's must've been traumatic."

Derek's hands come around to rest on his back and pull him in. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"Fine, I'm not. But neither are you. Go back to sleep."

"…What time is it?"

"Ten."

"I was out for three hours!?" Then, quieter. "My dad's not home?" Stiles flips over so he's on his back. Funny to think that the last time he was in his bed he actually thought his life had a good chance at being normal. Funny as in not funny.

"No," Derek answers. Stiles glances at him from where he's been staring at the crack in his ceiling, frowns when he sees the shadows under Derek's eyes and the tension in his neck. His hair is sticking out in all directions, like he's been pulling at it, and his hands are trembling. Not much, but they're still trembling. He looks tired. And a little — no, a lot — freaked out. So, yeah, definitely not _fine_.

"You should sleep," Stiles says.

"I tried. I can't." Derek leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes, resting his hands against Stiles' chest, right above his heart. "I don't need to sleep. I wasn't the one that just got…su—attacked."

Stiles wonders if he's just good at reading people (no, probably not) or if it's the mate thing that's making it possible for him to know what Derek is _not_ saying. He's not saying how terrified he was, Stiles knows. He's not saying how angry he was, or still is. He's not saying that he can't sleep because he won't know what to do if he wakes up and Stiles is being hurt again. He's not saying a lot of things, and it makes Stiles mad that he was the one that caused all of it.

Okay, technically, not him, but Scott, were-beer, suspected blackmail, and an _evil witch_, but his wolf doesn't care about stupid little things like _details_, so it's all pretty much his fault. He whines and pulls until Derek is lying, pinned, half underneath him. He—and yes, he, and not the wolf, although he supposes the wolf wants it too—wants Derek to be happy. Wants him to be relaxed. Wants him to be safe.

Although, come to think of it, Derek is the one—the only one in this bed-that's safe at the moment.

"I don't think it'll happen again tonight," he murmurs, squeezing where he's wrapped his arms around Derek's torso, pressing his face right over Derek's heart, so the steady beat will lull him back to sleep. "You should probably sleep now, since tomorrow's gonna suck."

There's a rumble that Stiles recognizes as Derek laughing, but he's already falling asleep, so he can't hear when—or if—Derek responds.

* * *

When he wakes up again, the sun is shining is his eyes, and he's alone in his bed.

Which, for the first time, leaves him disappointed.

He remembers last night—the easy way that he just entwined himself around Derek, the feeling of safety that enveloped him as he drifted in a kind of miasma, surrounded by sleeping werewolves, limbs heavy from exhaustion and — and he's not afraid of admitting to himself (and no one else, thank you very much, at least yet) that he wants that again.

The safe feeling. The warmth and the skin against skin and the easy, natural touches. He doesn't know if that means he wants more puppy piles, or if he wants more cuddling with Derek, or both. Probably both. The former to a lesser degree, because sometimes Allison smells too much like Scott, and Lydia smells too much like Jackson, and then Danny forgets himself and starts humping someone…

But yeah, definitely more of the cuddling with Derek. Because Stiles is realizing that he's developing a complex for the man's fingers. Or, more specifically, the patterns that Derek's fingers find it necessary to trace into his skin every time he gets his hands on him. The spirals and figure eights and circles and squares.

Stiles has known him for less than a day—holy shit!—and he's already got Derek kinks. Great.

He wonders, as he stretches, not particularly concerned about getting up, if Derek had gotten any sleep last night. He hopes so. Sleep is good. Sleep is important. Especially when you're dealing with asshole witches.

He can hear the pack, including Derek, down in the kitchen, and Dad is home, snoring in his room. So, everyone's safe (relatively so, that is), everyone's relaxed (again with the relativity), and he doesn't know why he should just jump the gun and be the one to ruin it all. So he doesn't get up, and uses the alone time to get his head back on straight.

It's important, in these types of situations, to sometimes just take a step back and think about what's happening. Otherwise it all just gets to be too much. They all learned that the hard way back in high school. So Stiles starfishes out on the bed, and stares at the ceiling, and he thinks.

Or, he tries to.

But his thinking is more foggy than usual, since he has a killer headache, and he can't help but wonder where his clothes have gone (probably ripped them when he turned), and be thankful that at least he's wearing boxers, and wish that he could just go back to sleep and have the rest of them deal with this before he wakes up.

Okay, so not the greatest time for thinking.

But he could just try to lay here and _not_ think…

"Stiles!" Lydia yells from downstairs. "We all know you're awake! Stop avoiding us and get down here. Your mate is _pining_."

"I'm not pi—" Stiles hears Derek mutter as he pushes himself off the bed, _gingerly_, and limps over to his drawers, _slowly_, to get a t-shirt. Everything hurts, which is never a good sign. Especially when you're a werewolf and the hurt should've gone away a long time ago.

"You're pining," Allison says, although quietly, so Stiles has to strain to hear her. "It's okay, though. It happens a lot…at first. Next year you'll probably be able to spend _days_ away from each other without pining. Just takes time."

"Oh go—" Stiles hears a clunk that he interprets as Derek hitting his head against the table. He picks out a purple tee and pulls it on with lots of grunts and moans and curse words, and doesn't even attempt to put pants on before he's walking, _slowly_, down the steps.

"When Jackson and I found out we were mated we couldn't even get fifty feet away from each other," Lydia says when he's at the top step, sounding positively giddy. "To be fair, though, that was mostly Jackson. He's a bit needy."

"I am _not_ nee—"

"Scott kept stealing my clothes," Allison shares. Stiles groans, only half because of the ache in his head. The other half is because he really _does not_ need mating stories. Really. At all. "I think he even wore my underwear once."

"I _didn't_, I told you, they were mine," Scott whines. Stiles reaches the bottom of the stairs, and turns the corner to the kitchen.

"They were mine," Allison says. He groans his entrance into the kitchen, waving a greeting to the others as he makes straight for Derek. He doesn't want to. He doesn't, he swears. It's just that the moment he sees him his body kind of _tells_ him to go there. Derek's wearing the same clothes he was in yesterday, but the circles under his eyes look a little better, and he's smiling, so Stiles counts it as a win. A win against what, he doesn't know.

He kind of collapses when he gets to Derek, letting his torso fall over until his nose is at Derek's neck and his arms are coming around the back of the chair to hold Derek still. He takes a big whiff, closing his eyes and smiling as the headache just kind of…disappears. He knows it's only temporary—that the pain is gone because he's touching his mate (and, oh god, Stiles doesn't think he's going to get used to thinking _that_ anytime soon)—so he stays there, eyes closed, until he's sure he can handle more pain.

"You should wear my clothes," he mumbles, because he wants everyone to laugh, and not silently judge him from where they're sitting, like they're, ahem, doing now. He can feel (literally) their second hand embarrassment. Well, Danny's not embarrassed. He seems..._hungry_. Ugh. But hey, they were the ones that started with the mating talk. "I promise I don't have pink sparkly underwear like Allison. Boxer-briefs, all the way."

"They weren't pink and sparkly!" Scott protests, but Stiles doesn't pay attention because Derek is laughing, and Derek's hand is coming around to rub the back of his neck, and he kind of wants to just turn into a something wrappable and wrap himself around Derek forever.

He sighs, because twenty-four hours ago he would've never thought he'd be practically throwing himself in someone's lap (or, over their shoulders) and licking their neck. Granted, he's not licking Derek's neck, but he _wants_ to. Of course, he also never would have thought he'd be dealing with time-sucking witches, so there's that.

"I have a headache," he says. Or mumbles. Then, begrudgingly, untangles himself from Derek and shuffles over to make himself some tea. There's silence as he stretches up to find the loose leaf earl grey mix he reserves for stressful occasions, then the tea steeper.

"…I think that actually has something to do with the spell," Lydia says, and then…

"I made coffee?" So Derek _does_ know what a question mark is. How cute. Stiles blinks at him as he puts water in the tea kettle.

"I don't drink coffee," he says, freezes when Derek's eyes go wide. Then he remembers that his uncle owns a _coffee_ shop (that also sells tea, yes, but the main reason people go there is for the _coffee_). The stuff must be, like, a family religion. "It's actually, uh—"

"A very fucking hilarious story," Scott says.

"Did no one hear what I just said? Because as important as drink preferences are in a relationship, I think this is a _little_ more important?" Lydia looks at everyone. Danny and Jackson and Allison nod. Scott shrugs. Stiles is too focused on watching for his water to boil to react.

"It's really just psychosomatic," Stiles grumbles, then shrugs. "Okay, I also don't like the taste, but I mean—"

"You don't like the _taste,_" Derek says.

"I just…" Stiles points at his mug. "I like tea."

"He got drunk and coffee-high," Scott says. "And he woke up in Nevada covered in pink feathers."

"It was actually New Mexico," Stiles corrects, turns around to eye Lydia, who is starting to steam. Not literally. Metaphorically, of course. "So, I have a headache because…?"

"You'll like the coffee I make," Derek says. "I've got a special blend that—

"Yeah." Lydia eyes Derek. Stiles is actually kind of happy she does it, because Lydia only eyes people she cares about. "The spell, it needs a center. A kind of…a focus point."

"And I'm the focus point."

"Yes. So, all of us are getting time taken, but you're, uh…" Lydia takes a sip of her coffee, frowns. "This coffee _is_ really good, Stiles. I'm just saying." Stiles pours the water when it boils, rolling his eyes. "So, anyway, you're getting the most time taken. And all the time that's getting taken from _us_ is passing through you—"

"Why isn't the focus point Scott?" Stiles puts the kettle back and goes to sit next to Derek. None of their laptops are on the table, just plates of half-eaten food. And the coffee, of course.

"It should be Scott," Jackson grumbles. "He's the testicle that got us into this mess in the first place."

"Awww, I didn't know you cared." Stiles smiles at him, turns back to Lydia, raises his eyebrows, which is a bad idea, because that just makes his head hurt _more_.

"Shut up, _Stilins—"_

"Because you're the Alpha." Lydia shrugs when Stiles just glares at her. "Werewolf dynamics, Stiles, don't blame me. Even before Scott did his whole "you-don't-love-me-because-you-won't-say-you're-the-_Alpha_" routine, we all pretty much treated you as Alpha—"

"No you didn't. And you still don't." Stiles snorts. "Alphas don't _exi—_"

"Yes, yes," Danny leans back in his chair. "We all know you're a free wolf who don't follow no rules, Stile—"

"That was a bad joke," Stiles says. "And you should feel bad about yourself for it."

"-Well, it's early, and I haven't _eaten _eaten in a week," Danny growls back. Stiles winces at the sudden flood of imagery he gets. All naked limbs and gasped moans. "The fact remains, though, that everyone recognizes you as Alpha because you're always the one that gets us out of trouble. Plus you cook for us."

"Fine." Stiles takes a sip of his tea. It's scalding, but he's a werewolf, so it doesn't matter as much. He just wants something to distract him from the pain in his head. He growls, sinks deeper into his chair, sneaks a look at Derek to find him staring. "_What?"_

"I'll make you some coffee later. When this is all over," he says. Stiles narrows his eyes at him, grabs Derek's hand, and puts it on his forehead, unable to contain the satisfied moan that comes out of his mouth as the pain disappears.

"Just…just keep that there, all right?" He chokes out. "And I promise I'll try your coffee. Later."

Derek hums in approval, pulls Stiles' chair closer.

"So is that all you found? That I'm the focus point?"

"I did some calculations about how much time we're actually losing," Lydia says after a bit, winces when everyone looks at her. "What!? I was in the shower…"

Stiles nods in understanding; a good portion of Lydia's brilliance occurs in the shower. "And?"

"Yesterday morning was about a month," she starts. "A month and a half for you, Stiles. And last night…a year for us, two for you."

"Fucksticks," Stiles says, actually kind of impressed. Get a group of average witches together and they could _seriously _do some damage. Stiles feels the tense set of Derek's shoulders and puts his free arm around them. "Do you know how much power that converts into?"

"Not a lot, actually. But I think that those were just tests."

Stiles groans. Of course they were just tests.

"So lovely miss Lackhart is planning to do something bigger with us?" He takes a sip of tea. "Something that's going to take a decade or more?"

"Yup, she's probably building up to it." Lydia drums her finger against the table. "I'd say we have until Friday to stop her."

"What about getting the time back?" Derek asks, quietly.

"I think it's possible," Allison says, after a very pregnant pause. "I looked some stuff up last night—not about this type of spell, specifically, but about similar ones, and it usually takes a new spell to get whatever's been taken back. Has to use the same amount of power, though. Something about replacing what's lost and the natural balance of things. Typical witch bulls—stuff."

Stiles narrows his eyes as Scott leans in to kiss Allison's cheek. Not because of the kiss, no, because his brain is suddenly working.

Stiles likes it when his brain works. It makes everything so much easier.

He gets up, hungry, and goes to the fridge, letting his body move on instinct as his mind makes connections and hashes out something that is beginning to look like a strategy. It's not _definitely _a strategy, because there are still too many variables up in the air, but it's a start. A start of something that is probably going to make everyone look at him like he's crazy.

But then again, that's not really abnormal behavior for them, so…

There aren't any leftovers from last night in the fridge, and Stiles wonders briefly if Derek had cleaned up after he had brought them all upstairs. His chest clenches at the thought—at the imagery of Derek in here alone, mopping up pad thai and lemongrass chicken off the floor, confused and scared and — and he takes a moment to talk himself out of jumping the man right here.

Not the time, nor the place, he says to himself. A few more days, maybe. _Maybe_.

And if not, then the others can just go sit in dark corners while he gets it on. Because, apparently, Stiles has a thing for people taking care of him. Well, not people. Just one person, specifically. With green-hazel (and sometimes red) eyes and dark, dark hair and cheekbones carved out of black marble and a way of touching him that just makes him want to—

He grabs a banana, then puts it back down when he remembers last night's summer roll debacle, and gets an apple instead, even though the last thing he wants is a fricken' _apple_. Ugh.

He bites into it anyway, on his way back to his seat.

"So," he says, because they've all fallen silent. Thinking about what, he doesn't know. But it's making them send jittery, nervous, scared feelings his way. "I may have a plan—"

"I love it when you start planning," Scott sighs, as if he's _relieved_ or something. Stiles shrugs when the others nod enthusiastically, used to it. His plans do tend to be pretty awesome. Most of the time. There was that thing with the banshee.

But again, no one likes to talk about the banshee.

"It, uh," Stiles looks at Derek, who had grabbed his free hand as soon as he sat down again. "Do you think your pack would help us out?"

Derek's hand squeezes. "They will. They wanted to come yesterday, but I told them no."

Stiles nods for a bit, looks around the table, then nods some more, then takes a bite of his apple and chews it slowly. "So, would it be too much to ask them to pay a visit to our witch?"

* * *

"Holy fuck," Erica says when Stiles opens the front door. It's an hour later. Derek is taking a shower upstairs, the others are watching infomercials in the living room, and Stiles is, well, holding the door open. Because no one else wanted to get it when the bell rang, and even though he had put on his best whiney-face, no one gave in. So here he is, holding the door open, staring at the three newcomers and telling his wolf to _calm the fuck down_ because all it wants to do is rub itself all over them.

Must be a mate thing. They all kind of smell like Derek, underneath their own smells. An interesting mix of cinammon and cereal and leather and coffee.

"Erica Reyes?" Stiles is pretty sure that's her last name. He's impressed he knows that much, because the last time he even thought about Erica Reyes was in high school. They were partnered up a couple of times in freshman English, if he remembers correctly, but whenever he had tried to initiate conversation, she had just given him _the look_. The look that says, quite plainly, _no_. "You're a werewolf now?"

"It really is you." Erica sniffs at him, leans forward, and grins. "This is _hilarious_."

"You two know each other?" Laura says, because she's there too, and is also noisy. That means that the blonde, blue-eyed guy behind her is Isaac. He also looks _suspiciously _familiar. But one problem at a time. Stiles snorts at the thought; if only his life was so simple.

"Stiles here was kind of a celebrity back in the day." Erica says. Behind her, Isaac nods, confirming Stiles' suspicions that this is turning into a high school reunion. He bet he knows who Boyd is too. "Actually, his whole pack was kind of a big deal."

"We were in the same year." Stiles glances around at Isaac. "Although I don't think _we_ were. You were on the human lacrosse team, right?"

"Y-yeah. You knew me?" Isaac seems happy. "I was a year behind you guys."

"Yeah." He scratches his head. "So I'm guessing Boyd is _that_ Boyd, right?"

Erica nods. "My mate, too." She makes to brush past him, but at the last minute, kisses his cheek. Which is…surprising, to say the least. "I'm glad Derek found his mate. And it kind of makes sense that it's you."

"Shoes off. This is a no shoes house. And, it makes _sense_?" Stiles ushers Laura and Isaac in, closes the door behind them, and leads the way to the living room. "How does that make _sense_? We didn't even know each other before all of _this_." Stiles gestures around him vaguely, not knowing whether _this_ refer to being mates or the witch situation or both.

"He had a crush on you. Back in high school," Isaac says, and Stiles hears a crash from the bathroom upstairs. The television shuts off in the living room, and when they round the corner, everyone is sitting, heads turned towards him, smiling wolfishly. He's pretty sure he's doing the same thing, though, because Laura, Isaac, and Erica are looking at him in horror.

"…but he didn't tell you yet, though, did he?" Laura asks. Stiles tries to stop grinning, but he's pretty sure it's impossible with all the evil delight wafting everywhere.

"That—no. He didn't," Stiles finally says. He stands there for a moment, torn between making introductions and running upstairs to tear down the bathroom door, and then shakes himself, because, yeah, that's fucking adorable (and awesome) but it can wait.

Sadly. He doesn't want it to wait, but it has to.

At least until Derek gets out of the shower. Right, okay.

"Pack, meet Hale pack," he says, because, yeah, he has to be the responsible one, but that doesn't mean he's going to do a good job of it when he's _distracted_.

"I think we're probably just one pack," Laura says, and when everyone looks at her, smiles gone, she just shrugs. "Mates tie packs together, right? So we're pack."

"You know," Stiles gestures for them to sit, which they do, all three collapsing in the recliner across from where the others are crowded on the sofa. "way too much of my time, recently, has been focused on unwrapping the different definitions of the word _pack_, so even though that kind of just seems…weird…it's probably not, and I really am too tired to care. So, right, welcome to the pack."

"Does this mean we get free coffee?" Jackson asks, looks at Stiles. "or tea."

"This won't affect them being able to help us, right?" Danny asks. Everyone looks at him. "You know, like, are they going to wake up tomorrow bonded to us and getting the time sucked out of them?"

"I don't think so," Laura says. "We're not pack_ yet._ We just have high compatibility because Derek and Stiles are mated." She pauses, scrunches her nose. "Well, I mean, they haven't done the deed_ yet_, so the bond isn't strong, but—"

There's a low moan from upstairs. Not the good kind, the "oh god how is this my life kill me now" kind.

"-_but_, I mean, they already smell like each other. At least, Stiles smells like Derek, so I'm assuming it's mutual. Anyway, it's not an immediate thing. So, no, if whatever you want us to do relies on the fact that we aren't technically _pack_, it won't affect it."

"Awesome," Stiles says as he plops down in between Allison and Lydia, because his plan is kind of reliant on them not being pack. Not yet. Although he's surprisingly cool with the idea of them being pack in the future. "so, you know the basics, I'm assuming, and we'll just fill you in on the details, and if you think of something better, don't be afraid to tell me, all right?"

They nod, and Stiles tells them. He tells them about the witches, about Steyna and Leyla and the prison sentence, and about Park Jae Soon and the other foreigners in the Lackhart coven, he tells them about the spell, and the bond that the spell relies on, and that Stiles is the focus point, and when he's done, he takes a deep breath.

"So," he says. "this is where we need you. We've got info, but all of it's very objective. We need a _feel _for Park and the others, but mostly for Park, and we need to know if it's possible to get them on…well, to get them on our side."

"You want us to pay a visit to the Park girl," Erica says, nodding. She looks excited. Isaac looks a little nervous. And Laura, well, she just looks normal, actually.

"Exactly." Stiles nods. "I'll be going with you, so you won't have to—"

He hears a crash from upstairs, then pounding feet, and seconds later, Derek skids into the room, eyes red but otherwise trying to look casual. Stiles grins from where he's sitting, eyeing him over the back of the sofa.

"Hey Romeo," he greets. "any other revelations that I should know about? Did you take pictures of me in high school? Write 'Derek Hale-Stilinski" in your notebook instead of actual notes? Is there a shrine, because if there's a shrine, Der—"

Derek's hand covers his mouth, and he pulls him up and over the sofa, half against Derek's chest, half hanging in mid-air with his feet perched on Lydia's shoulder. He would struggle, really, he would, but he likes the manhandling. Plus, he's laughing too hard to do anything but allow it.

"You didn't tell us earlier you were planning on going," Derek says, hand still over his mouth.. Stiles sighs, pulls his feet over so that he's standing, and pries Derek's hand away.

"Because you would've started the he-man thing, and this needs to be done as quickly as possible." He meets Derek's eyes, takes in the dilated pupils. He sees the reddened cheeks, and hears his fast heartbeat. He can smell embarrassment—which he doesn't really understand, because, hey, Stiles is a _catch_, okay—and also fear, and worry, and consternation. But he also smells himself, from the clothes that Derek is wearing (and _oh,_ would focusing on _that_ cause a whole lot of sexual frustration, because _damn_ is it a turn on to smell hims—no, Stiles) and can sense a deep-seated contentment and satisfaction.

The combination is heady, to say the least.

"Ya know, Derek," he whispers, smiling when Derek growls, bringing his hand up to rub behind his ear. "the whole crush thing is adorable. So you should probably use it to your advantage if you want to get in my pants quicker. I'd be totally up for it."

"Stiles," Lydia snarls. "Seriously?"

But Derek is laughing, so Stiles ignores her in lieu of watching his face. Because Derek laughing is like…like nirvana. Stiles wants to do it again. And again. A whole lot, actually.

"All right," Derek says, nodding. For a second, Stiles thinks he's talking about getting in his pants, which is more than fine with him. But no, it's back to business. "You go. I go with yo—"

"Don't think you had much of a choice, anyway," Jackson says. "you both would've started pining the minute he walked out the door."

"It'll take, maybe two, three hours." Stiles untangles himself from where Derek has wrapped his arms around him, starts pacing. "Jackson, you go do your exam stuff. But I want—I'd like—everyone else who's not going with us to do research."

"On what?" Danny makes a face. Stiles continues pacing as he gives him a look.

"We're dealing with witches, here, Danny. We need the facts. More facts. A variety of facts." He pauses. "Witches have rules. Balance and stuff. Knowing that will…don't you work with a witch at the Hale shop?"

"Yeah, but…"

"We need information on how to break the spell, which we're not getting from any of the searches we've done," Stiles says. "We need inside information. A witch's perspective, if you must—"

"Aren't we going to get that from Park?" Scott, who has been silent up until now, nuzzling into Allison's neck because…well, Stiles doesn't know why. He actually didn't even know that Scott was paying attention.

"We need it so Park doesn't screw us over," Isaac says, and Stiles nods. Five points for Isaac.

"Yes, good. Correct." Stiles paces for a bit. Laura, Isaac, and Erica are staring at him. So is Derek, actually. They all have that look that people who have never seen Stiles brainstorm get. Trepidation. Fear. A little amazement thrown in for good measure. Stiles thinks it's the pacing. People always get nervous when he paces.

"When we get to Park's house, Laura and Erica should be the one's going in," he says. "We don't know if Park has any protective charms, so she'll be easier to lure out when there are two females at her door, although—" He stops, looks at the two women in question, wincing at the leather and the general aura of badassery. "maybe less Catwoman and more girl-next door?"

There's a pause.

"Do you do this, uh, a lot?" Isaac asks, head cocked. Derek snorts from behind him. The others just kind of fidget and avoid answering the question. Then Stiles hears a door slam open upstairs, and winces.

"Stiles!" His dad yells. "Sleeping! Take it somewhere else or be quiet!"

* * *

In the car—Laura's Prius, because everyone looked at him strangely when he suggested driving the jeep—Stiles and Derek sit in the back, Laura drives, and Erica sits in the passenger seat, fingers fiddling with the hem of the flowery top and lacy shorts Lydia had forced on her previously.

It's, well, it's kind of awkward, actually. Now that he's not taking charge or anything, it just feels like he's, well, with his mate's pack. His mate's _family. _He wants, he realizes, to make a good impression. He wants to get Erica and Laura to trust him. Especially Laura, because, hello, big sister. But then again, Erica is like a little sister. Oh man, is this how Derek has been feeling?

Because right now he feels really awkward, damn it.

Curling and uncurling his fists against his jeans, Stiles looks out the window, watching the houses flit by as they drive, and tries to focus on the task at hand.

Erica and Laura are, essentially, walking into this blind. They don't know if Park will be able to figure out that they're werewolves; they don't know if Steyna has her under surveillance. Hell, they really are only _assuming _that Park is being forced into doing this in the first place.

When Stiles had mentioned that back at the house earlier, Isaac had asked why they hadn't just gone to the police, and he'd been forced to explain, again, why the police are useless when it comes to crap like this. _Especially _with crap like this.

Except for his dad. His dad usually proves to be a _huge_ help…when Stiles actually tells him what's going on. That doesn't happen often. Mostly because they only tell him if something really horrible happens.

Anyway, back to Laura and Erica.

The plan is that they go in, and Derek and Stiles stay in the car, ready to run in as back-up if Park turns violent. Which hopefully _will not_ happen, because Stiles hasn't actually mentioned to Derek that they're here as the muscles. He's kind of hoping that Derek already knows that they're here as the muscles. Not that Laura and Erica aren't perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, but extra muscles are always a good idea. Actually, he's more hoping that there's no need for them to be the muscles, but both hopes are equally important.

Anyway, Laura and Erica go in, assess the situation, assess _Park_, and if all goes well—if they don't get attacked or spelled or trigger any alarms—then it's on to the next part, which is convincing Park that they'll be able to help her if she helps them. Stiles isn't sure if, at this part, it should be Laura and Erica that do this, or if he should make his appearance and talk to her. Both options have their pros and cons, he just hasn't decided which one he _prefers_.

So, yeah. No biggy. Just another day in the life of Stiles Stilinski, perennial trouble-magnet.

They come to a red light, and Laura's navigation system tells them to turn left at the next intersection.

"If I haven't thanked you guys for doing this yet." Stiles clears his throat when his voice comes out in a croak. "Thank you. Really."

Derek squeezes the hand he's been holding since they pulled out of the driveway, and Stiles smiles at him as he squeezes back.

"No problem, Stiles," Laura says, looking back at him, glancing at their hands. "Thank you for making my brother—"

"Oh god." Derek groans, hitting the back of his head against his seat. Erica giggles.

"Hey, I'm the older sister, Derek, I get to be corny," Laura says, turns back to Stiles, who is _so_ not blushing. He's not. "He's an idiot with emotional baggage, and he deserves you."

"…is that a compliment?" Stiles really wants to know, because it doesn't sound like one.

"Yes," Laura says, with a nod of her head, and then the light turns and she's driving. He almost thinks he imagines the catch in her voice.

The rest of the drive is silent until they get to Park's neighborhood, when Erica whistles approvingly. Stiles agrees, because around him is suburbia-_plus_. Park, or, probably, the Park family, is _rich_. Like, tennis court, sauna, pool, bowling alley, five acres of useless lawn _rich. _

"Maybe Steyna's blackmailing her or something," Stiles sighs, as they pass large house after larger house. "Like, if she doesn't do this she'll drag them down into financial ruin."

"Or she's threatening her with magic." Derek raises an eyebrow at him, squeezing his hand. Stiles laughs.

"Okay, that's more probable, I gue—" He trails off when the navigation system says they've arrived, slides down his seat so he can't be seen through the window. What? No harm in being cautious. He can hear a single heartbeat in the house as they approach. "Drive past and park around the corner."

No one argues. He loves it when no one argues. Although, he supposes they're only listening to him because they're assuming he's the expert for these types of things. Laura, Erica, and Derek are all tense, all nervous, all three of them unused to realizing that they're in mortal peril. Then again, Stiles is tense too, and he _is_ used to being in mortal peril. The nervousness probably never goes away.

Laura parks by a tall, shading oak tree, nodding at Erica as they both get out.

"You know what to do? You know what she looks like?" Stiles asks, not bothering to whisper. Erica and Laura both hiss at him, though, which is kind of hilarious.

"Yes, we know what to do." Erica holds up the clipboard and pamphlets Danny made - fake advertisements for a catering service – and closes her door.

"We know what she looks like," Laura says at the same time, and closes her door.

Then they're walking down the sidewalk, smiles on their faces, arms swinging innocently at their sides. He watches them for a bit, waiting until they turn the corner to scramble up into the driver's seat. A beat later, and Derek is sitting next to him, jaw clenched, eyes boring holes into the dashboard. It must be hard for him, Stiles thinks, all of this. Considering what happened to his parents. If that had happened to Stiles, he would probably have put a tracker on his dad and made him change jobs.

Of course, it's still hard for Stiles, but he's not panicking. He's used to this. Derek doesn't seem like he is. Doesn't seem like he should be. Because what Derek went through is so much worse than what Stiles went through. And what Stiles went through when his mother died, well, that was pretty bad.

He listens as Erica and Laura exchange some words with a dog walker, smiling and laughing and cooing over the dog itself, even as their hearts beat nervously. Next to him, Derek's hands form fists.

"Are you okay with this, Derek?" He finally asks, when the dog walker moves on, and Laura and Erica continue towards the Park home. Derek looks at him, opens his mouth to give a quick response, but Stiles holds his hand up. "I mean, really okay, Derek. Not just fine because you have to be. Your parents, I mean, and now your sister. I just…" he winces. "I just didn't have any other options."

Derek blinks, and his eyes rove over Stiles' face. Then he just kind of deflates. "I'm not okay, Stiles. Neither are you. I can feel it. Can feel you. But—" he closes his eyes. "I'm not losing any more family. I refuse to, Stiles. And you're the same. You know you are."

Stiles swallows, but nods. "We're not going to lose anyone," he says.

"I know." Derek smiles at him, and Stiles goes silent. Erica and Laura are walking up to the Park mansion gate before he talks again.

"So you really had a crush on me?"

There's a pause, then. "…yeah."

"…_why_?" Stiles doesn't remember being particularly interesting his freshman and sophomore years of high school, and after that Derek had graduated and gone to New York, so he hadn't witnessed the ensuing two years of increasingly freakish events that had befallen Stiles and his friends. Well, there was the whole thing with Allison sophomore year, and then the bit where Jackson was a kanima. But freshman year was definitely situation-less. But then again, why is Stiles thinking that his hellish junior and senior years had made him more attractive? Weird logic there, Stiles, dude.

"You smelled good," Derek says after a bit, eyes narrowed as if trying to remember something. "You smell better now, but that was the first thing I noticed."

"What, so I like, walked in to AP history and you fell in love at first smell?" Stiles jokes, feels his jaw drop when Derek's eyes widen and his heartbeat stutters. "Holy _crap_, dude. And you didn't - you _could've_ told me then, you know?"

"You were a freshman," Derek says, like that actually makes _sense_. Okay, maybe it kind of does. "And I was…I wasn't ready for something like that."

"Huh," Stiles says. Derek is not saying something. Something important. He narrows his eyes at Derek until he sighs.

"You smelled like how my parents used to smell, and I couldn't handle it." He shrugs. "That's what got my attention. And then I, uh," Derek winces. "are you really making me do this?"

"Yes, and I promise I will do something of equal or greater value if you just _continue_ with that line of thought." Stiles checks on Laura and Erica, hears them walking up the pathway to the Park home, having just been let in by an automatic buzzer. There's only so much time before Stiles has to pay attention to them instead of Derek. Which sucks, because he wants to know more about Derek's crush on him. A lot more. One day he'll torture it out of him. All of it. And it will be _amazing_, but for now, he's going for the rushed and summarized version.

Derek sighs, but the edges of his mouth twitch in an almost-smile. "Then I started noticing you everywhere, and you were kind of mesmerizing."

"M-mesmerizing." Stiles turns red, blinks, takes a deep inhale as he tries to center himself. "That—yeah that's awesome," he breathes. There's a fluttering in his chest that is suspiciously light and airy, and his hands suddenly don't know what to do, and he really just wants to _fidget_. He's never been called mesmerizing. He doesn't know why the word makes him feel like he's standing at the edge of a cliff on a very windy day.

"You asked," Derek mutters, turning to look out the window as Erica and Laura ring the doorbell. Stiles knows this is where he should say something. Something important. Something like I Love You, but the words sound cheap, because even though he knows he's most definitely going to fall in love with Derek, saying it now would just feel rushed. People don't fall in love in less than a day, even mates. They need each other. They pine without each other. But love takes time. Time and trust and arguments and history. Like what his parents had. That had been love.

Okay, sure, Stiles may be painting his parents' relationship in a very rosy and romantic light, but he's allowed, because that's what he wants. And he wants that with Derek. And, oh wow, that's a scary revelation.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel once, twice, and then, _fuck it_, grabs Derek's shirt—_his_ shirt, actually, that Derek happens to be wearing—pulls him in, and kisses him. As kisses go, it's not his best. It's abrupt, and it's sloppy, and he's half-draped over the console in between them, a travel mug digging into his hip, and Derek is kind of frozen for the first two seconds.

When Derek moans low and pulls him closer, so that their chests are flush against each other, Stiles gets a tad bit desperate. He wishes, fervently, that he could _inhale_ Derek. That he could _devour _him. Lay him out and _worship _all that skin and muscle and sinew, until he's quivering and moaning and both of them are _aching_. He might say that last bit out loud, because Derek whines and nods just as fervently. Stiles uses his lips, and his tongue, and he presses and pulls and runs his hands over smooth cotton and, then, smoother skin, until they're cupping the back of Derek's head, tangled in his hair, pressing their faces together so hard it would hurt if it didn't feel so _good_.

Then he realizes where they are, what it is they're supposed to be doing, and pulls back, resting his forehead against Derek's as he tries to get his breathing under control. It doesn't help when Derek looks at him, from mere centimeters away, with pupils blown wide, mouth red and wet and all the more kissable, his fingers skimming under his tee and over his chest. No, it doesn't help, it just makes Stiles _want_.

"So I should call you mesmerizing often, then?" Derek, unsurprisingly, is the first one to speak, because Stiles can't form a single word, let alone a sentence. He laughs, though, and gives in to the temptation to press a kiss to the side of Derek's mouth, before pulling away.

His mind is still too fuzzy to think of a witty reply, so he just nods and smiles, nods and smiles, and then sighs and readjusts himself, because his jeans are too tight and the zipper is digging into his half-boner every time he shifts.

He chooses to ignore the satisfied rumble that comes from Derek, and tunes in to Laura and Erica, who, thankfully, are still waiting for someone to greet them at the door.

Then there's footsteps, bare feet slapping against hard tile, and the door is swinging open, and—

"_Oh fu—"_ Erica gasps.

"_Shi-!" _Laura screams

Well, Stiles thinks, that escalated quickly.

And then he's out of the car, sprinting down the sidewalk, Derek right behind him and both of them half turned, stealth be damned. Everything is panic and the instinct to protect, initially, for maybe the first five seconds, and then semi-logical Stiles comes back, and he knows he has to get to the house before Derek, for there to be any chance to salvage this. Whatever _this_ has turned into.

So he speeds up, and by the time he jumps clear over the gate in front of the Park house, he's got a good two second's lead on Derek. Which is enough time for him get through the front door, take stock of the lack of furniture, the musky smell that means the place hasn't been cleaned in forever, Erica and Laura writhing in pain at the bottom of a large flight of marble steps, and then his head is exploding in white, hot needle-pricks, and his body is collapsing in on itself. There's a shadow, a blurry shadow, thin and short and emaciated and silhouetted against the large bay window in what should be a living room, and then there's a thud behind him, and Derek is groaning, and _oh god_, Stiles knows he needs to get this under control.

He stretches out a hand from where both are curled around his abdomen, and his claws screech against cold marble.

"Park Jae Soon," he snarls, because his mouth is half of a muzzle. "Please. We're here to he—"

The pain lessens, but only enough for him to realize two things. One; that the pain he's in, and the pain that Derek, Erica, and Laura in are _quite _different. Stiles is familiar with this pain; he's felt it two times before. A sucking, burning, _pulling_, pain. A nasty pain that's unclean and impure and just _wrong_. But Laura and Erica are more aware. Snarling and snapping against invisible bonds. More annoyed and angry, really, than in the kind of pain that Stiles is in.

And two; Park Jae Soon looks terrified.

"We'll help!" He yells, hoping beyond hope that this isn't a trap. It takes a few seconds for him to get lucid enough to say more. "With Lackhart! We'll get you free. _Please_."

"I'm not doing anything!" He hears, but he can't lift his head to look at her. He's either getting used to the pain, or it isn't as bad as it was last night, considering that he's still conscious and can actually _talk_. "Lackhart put charms to keep me in!"

Stiles can't hear if she's lying or not, but he does hear it when Derek stops snarling and yelling his name. So he takes that as her telling the truth.

Which is promising on a whole lot of different levels.

He snarls as the pain intensifies, hits his forehead against the marble floor and digs in with his claws until everything comes back into focus and the white noise is only at the edges of his vision.

"Out!" He screams, voice hoarse already. "Out of the house! Pull them out, Park! Help, _please._"

Then he remembers that she _can't_.

He doesn't want to, because the pain—the pain is one of a kind, really—but he _has_ to. So, somehow, he gets to his hands and knees, and he slides over, shaky, but _determined_, to paw at Derek with useless, furry claws until he has a hold on his wrist, and he starts pulling. It probably takes ten seconds to get out the door and past the entrance, but it feels like eons.

And then he's on his back in the grass, eyes shut against the too-bright sky, back arched, his lungs constricting unnaturally and his muscles on fire. His hand is stilled wrapped around Derek's wrist, who's crouched at his side, hovering over him protectively.

Derek's saying something to him—yelling something—but he can't stay. He has to get Laura and Erica and Jae Soon out. So he shifts, and he sprints back in, roaring and growling at the pain, _daring_ it to overtake him. He grabs Laura's arm in his mouth, and the taste of blood slides down his throat as he pulls her out, tosses her to land on the grass next to Derek.

He collapses, again, for a bit, frozen at the edge of the door, snapping a warning when Jae Soon gets too close. Then he sprints to Erica, bites down on her leg, and throws her out, turning to Park when he sees her land on the grass in an ungraceful pile of limbs.

He doesn't know why they're affected by the charms and defense spells, and he's not. It probably has something to do with the spell _he's_ under. But that's not important right now. What's important is getting Park out.

His vision gets white and fuzzy as he advances on her, freezing when she screams and backs herself against the opposite wall. Panting, in pain, _so much pain_, he makes himself shift back. It's not a pleasant shift, like most are. There's nothing natural about this shift. It's broken bones and forced chemical reactions and just _agony_.

"Here to help," he growls out. "Need to get you out."

"She won't let me _go,_" Park screams. He can smell her terror, see her trembling. He doesn't care. Of the two of them, _he_ should be the pain screaming and shaking in terror, for fuck's sake.

"It's a charm." He remembers her screaming that earlier. She nods, eyes wide.

"I couldn't find them, whatever I did…" She slinks down to curl on the floor. Stiles glances at the entrance, sees Derek advancing on him, half-shifted, eyes wide and worried and on him. He snarls a warning, and Derek stops.

"Would I be able to find them," he growls. The pain isn't winding down. He doesn't expect it to. It's only been two minutes since he ran inside, and even the first attack lasted ten. He doesn't have the time, though, to just collapse and feel sorry for himself. Not here. Not in enemy territory. Not when everyone he loves is in danger. And no, that is not a fucking hyperbole, thank you very much. So he digs his claws into his palms, hard enough to break skin, the pain sharp enough to remind him to stay _calm_, and stares at her. " and tell you where they are, so you can break them."

She looks at him for a bit, takes a trembling breath in and out, then nods. "They have…they have anise in them, if she used what I think she used."

He jerks his head in a half-nod. "Does Lackhart know we're here?"

"No," Jae Soon squeaks, already following him as he stalks down the hall, towards the empty gourmet kitchen. "no. She just…she made me do the bonding spell. And then she put me here. And my parents, and, oh god - And…and, just no."

It takes five minutes—five agonizing, panicky, snarling, minutes—to find seven border charms, tucked into foundation stones and hidden underneath old floorboards, and one particularly annoying one dangling over the dining room chandelier, and then he's pulling Jae Soon out the front door, pushing her at Laura and Erica, who have both recovered enough to _not_ kill her. They grab her arms, though, a little too hard to ever be construed as _friendly_, but Stiles can't really reprimand them because he's too busy collapsing to his knees on the lawn. He takes a deep breath, but all it does is make him dizzy, so he rolls over to rest on his back, squinting his eyes at the sky.

The pain is settling. It's going away slower than he remembers. But the last time this happened, he fainted before it ended, so he's not too worried. Relatively, that is. Derek is kneeling at his side, yelling something. Past him, Erica and Laura are talking in low, tense voices to Park Jae Soon, who is curled in on herself, curled away from them. Out of the dark house, she's even more emaciated and shell-shocked. Which will either help their case, or hurt it.

He doesn't know, and he probably won't for a bit, because his head is kind of wrapped in tight, convoluted circles. His headache is going to just get worse.

"Derek," he says. Croaks, really. "We need to get her back to the pack. Away from this. Make sure she doesn't have any locator spells on her."

"Shut up," Derek growls. And then he picks him up. _He picks him up_. And it would be kind of—no, really—hot if he could actually move any of his limbs. But exhaustion and relief are weighing them down, so he just kind of hangs there. In Derek's arms. The distressed damsel to Derek's knight in shining armor.

There are so many things wrong with that picture it's hilarious.

"I think I'll be able to move in, like, five minutes," he says, resting his head against Derek's chest.

Derek just growls in response. It's not an angry growl. It's a worried growl. Stiles likes that he can tell the difference.

When Derek slides him into the back seat of the Prius—thankfully, Stiles and Derek hadn't damaged the car when they had heard Laura and Erica scream, just left the doors wide open in their hurry to run to the rescue, and, well, that the Prius is still there, un-looted, is a testament to the wealth of the neighborhood they're in—he pushes Stiles until he's leaning up against the far window, and then climbs in to sit in the middle.

He's manhandling Stiles so that his head is resting in Derek's lap, his arms around his waist, when Jae Soon, Erica, and Laura climb in.

At least it's Erica who gets in the back. Stiles thinks it would just be awkward for everyone if Derek and Jae Soon were forced to be in close proximity after what just happened. Well, it's still awkward, and it would be awkward, really, for _any_ of them to be in close proximity with her, but Derek is kind of touchy right now. And he just thinks it would be _more_ awkward.

And, ugh, how many times has he just said—thought, because he's pretty sure none of this has been said out loud, hopefully—the word awkward.

"Thank you," Park Jae Soon says, a little while later, when they've cleared the neighborhood and are turning onto the highway. "Really. This is just—just _thank you_."

"Don't thank us yet," Laura grits out. Stiles is pretty sure she took that line of some action movie. He can't remember which.

"No, actually, you can," Stiles says.

"I don't understand, though, why—"

"Not the time for explanations, Miss Park," Laura says, eyeing Stiles, who nods. "You said Steyna can't locate you?"

"No." Jae Soon looks confident, which is good.

"What about me?" Stiles asks, and when she just looks at him, he realizes she doesn't know. She never made the connection between his erratic behavior in her house and the spell. He sighs. "I'm in the werewolf pack you spe—"

"_Fuck_." Park Jae Soon looks at him for a bit, then seems to shake herself. "No. _No_. She can't find you. When that spell is done—it's the same spell I'm under. Not the life-taking part, but the rest. She can't locate you. It would upset the balance."

"Well, that's good then," Erica grunts. Derek and Laura nod; Stiles shrugs.

"For now, then, you're all relatively safe," he says. No one mentions that he doesn't include himself in that statement. But from the way Derek wraps his arms around him and squeezes, he notices.

* * *

**Thanks for all the follows and favorites! And, please, leave a review. I love reviews.  
**

**To Be Continued...  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Woohoo! **

Stiles is better by the time they reach the house, so he gets to walk to his front door. It's kind of weird, though, since his clothes—actually, all of their clothes, save for Park Jae Soon—are in tatters. Never a good idea to shift wearing clothes, unless you're into, well, tattered clothes. Public nudity. Dirt in weird places. Also, twigs.

Anyway.

It's not really a walk so much as a limp, but at least no one offers to take his elbow. He really would just like some space. He also wants a hug, but he wants space more, so he decides the hug can wait 'till later. Not much later, though. Maybe within the next hour. Thirty minutes. All right, _ten minutes_. Ten minutes of space to just cool down and maybe get a change of clothes from upstairs, then he's hugging someone.

Probably Derek.

_Preferably _Derek.

Park Jae Soon is being escorted by Laura and Erica behind him, her obvious nervousness and fear a buzzing in his head. Derek is walking next to him. He looks like he wants to touch Stiles. Okay, he _smells_ like he wants to touch Stiles. And looks it. Anyway, the point is that he wants to touch Stiles. But he also knows that Stiles needs space. Which is amazing and awesome and probably something to do with the mate-bond thing.

Stiles kind of feels bad, since it's obvious that Derek needs the closeness. His heart is still pounding, his breathing is uneven and shallow, and the smell of fear and anger is almost enough to cover up the earth-baking-tea smell that Stiles has come to associate with him. Has come to _expect_ from him. Okay, has come to _want_.

All up in his business, if you know what he means.

"How come you smell like tea?" Stiles asks, when they're halfway up the driveway. Right as the front door opens and Scott comes barreling out. Damn it.

"Wha—?" Derek asks. Stiles manages to avoid Scott when he tries to tackle him in a hug, sidestepping into Derek's chest, but isn't so lucky with Lydia. She's just suddenly wrapped around him, and then Danny is there, and Allison, and then Scott manages to pick himself up from the ground, and then, Jackson, who never left for his exam proctoring thing, because he doesn't smell like college.

Stiles sighs, knowing that this really isn't about him _per say_. They're not particularly ecstatic and touchy because he's alive and in one piece, although he likes to think that their sudden group hug is at least _partly_ because of that. No, they need comfort; they need to know that they're all right. That the _pack _is still there. And apparently the most obvious way to do that is to attack-hug him in the driveway.

Stupid magic pack bonds.

"I'm sorry," Scott whispers, and Stiles is momentarily stunned because Scott is _definitely_ crying. Or sniffling. Sniffle-crying. But, come _on_, the driveway is _not the place_ to have an emotional breakdown. "I'll never get drunk aga—_you_." Scott breaks off when he catches sight of Park.

Stiles manages to untangle himself from everyone as they all turn to her, growling, claws out, eyes glowing and narrowed.

"Calm down, asshats," he sighs, because this is _not the place_ for confrontations, either. "We're not doing this out here."

And then he turns and walks — limps - through the open front door, because if they're going to do this (and they are), he's going to be wearing clothes that are more fabric than hole. He makes a beeline for the stairs, and groans as he, slowly, starts to pull himself up.

He feels like a human. All achy and injured, and that just _sucks_.

"I don't smell like tea, I don't think," Derek suddenly says from right next to him, and Stiles has to grab the railing with both hands to keep from flailing backwards.

"_What?" _Stiles asks, blinking as Derek puts a hand out to steady him.

"Tea. You said I smell like tea." Derek gestures with his thumb towards downstairs. Stiles blinks again, slowly.

"You do smell like tea. Like really good _earthy _tea. Maybe oolong. Or barley. Or genmaicha." Stiles leans closer, sniffs Derek's shoulder. "And you smell like…like baking bread. And the forest. Pine and dirt and how grass smells right after it's mowed." Stiles smiles. "I think it's a mate thing."

He turns, continuing his trek up the stairs. Derek is silent, following him with what definitely looks like…contentment on his face. It's a cute look on him.

Then again, _everything_ is a cute look on him.

In his room, Stiles goes over and starts rifling through his drawers, looking for pants and a t-shirt that are loose enough that they won't be destroyed if he goes alpha, and Derek sits on his bed.

"I don't think my jeans will fit you, dude. But I do have pajama bottoms. Elastic waistband and all." He holds up a pair of said pants, a faded blue plaid.

"Laura brought me a change of clothes when she came," Derek says absently. "I should probably go get them."

"Yeah, cool." Stiles goes back to his drawers, picks out a pair of jeans and a tee, then just looks down at them. He sighs. "I'm probably going to rip these, too. The next time douche-witch decides she needs to do something witchy. I'd really prefer not to, ya know?"

"You smell like coffee," Derek suddenly blurts out. Stiles turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Coffee, huh?"

"How the beans smell, when you take a handful and hold them up to your nose. Earth and…and coffee. And caramel. Rich and smooth. And you smell like old books—"

"Oooh, that's a good one." Stiles leans against the wall, nodding. "Love old book smell, man."

"Yeah. And wood. Sawdust wood. Something sweet, too. I can't place it, but it's, like, sugar? Yeah, sugary." Derek nods, looking satisfied.

"So we smell like, what, like what we like?" Stiles snorts. "Sounds like those love potions in Harry Potter. "

"Huh."

"Please tell me you've read Harry Potter."

"Yeah, but…"

"Love potions? The uh, Amortentia one. Smell…or is it taste?" Stiles squints. "No, it's smell. Anyway, they smell like what you like? No? First assignment after this, dude; read Harry Potter. Write me an essay."

He rips his jeans off, since they're already in tatters anyway, and sighs down at his boxers. They're not _too_ bad. Still mostly holding everything in. Mostly. He shrugs and pulls the new pair of jeans on over them.

"Write you an essay. On Harry Potter." Derek sounds amused. Stiles chooses to ignore that he also sounds – and smells – turned on, because, sadly, not the time.

"Hey, I did it. Junior Seminar class on Supernatural Myths." Stiles grins at the memory. "Almost used it as a basis for my master's, but decided I liked political science more."

"…you're getting your master's degree?" This time, Derek sounds…proud? Yeah, proud. And still turned on. Stiles turns around, gives him a look.

"Stop getting turned on."

"Stop ripping your clothes off." Derek gives Stiles a wolfish grin when he turns to look at him. "And you're getting your master's degree?"

Stiles is suddenly struck by how _weird_ it is that he's actually surprised Derek doesn't know already. "This is so weird," he says.

"Weird?"

"Being mates." He walks over to lean against his desk, feeling guilty for only a second at the stacks of textbooks already collecting dust, then turns his attention back to Derek. "I feel like I know you, but _I don't_."

"I went to the New School in New York," Derek says, smiling and leaning back against the headboard, "got a master's in Business. Opened up a coffee shop for my Uncle in Soho. Moved back here three months ago. Now I'm in charge of opening up a fifth location in California—"

"Oh god, I'm mated to a hipster." Stiles looks at Derek in horror. "You're like, a ninja hipster. You wear t-shirts and jeans! You don't look like a hipster! Please tell me you don't take pictures of your meals and upload them to instagram, Derek, because that's just - you went to the _New School_. And, oh god, you're obsessed with _coffee_!? And worked at a coffee shop in _Soho!?_ I can't—I can't even…" Stiles holds up a hand when Derek starts laughing loudly. "Derek this is _serious_."

"I swear." Derek holds up a hand solemnly. "I'm not a hipster. Don't even have a twitter account."

Stiles eyes him for a second. "Because it's too mainstream?"

"_No, Stiles_." Derek snorts. "Because my life isn't that exciting."

"…that sounds amazing, actually." Stiles laughs when Derek looks disturbed. "Proverbial trouble magnet here, remember?"

"Oh, right." Something flits across Derek's expression. Something dark that reeks—literally, because werewolf senses—of emotional baggage and pain and hurt and death. Stiles flinches.

"Hey, no." He's in front of Derek in a flash, crouched next to where he's sitting on the bed. "Nothing's going to happen to me, Derek. And I swear that trouble magnet thing was an exaggeration."

Derek sighs. "I'm not…some delicate emotional _flower_, Stiles."

"Kind of are, actually." Stiles grins when Derek glares at him, changes the subject. "I'm in my last semester as a political science master's degree candidate at Berkeley, and come fall I'm going to officially be in the doctoral program."

"Isn't that like an hour's drive from here?" Derek takes the bait. Stiles nods.

"It was harder as an undergrad, but I didn't want to move. Or dorm. Ugh, dorming sounds awful. All those _smells._ Anyway, I work at _Good Books_, plus I'm an assistant for Hard-Ass Harris. He's a professor. And also an asshole. But it's money." Stiles shrugs. "It's easier now—less in-class time."

"This is where I say something about how I'm mated to a nerd?" Derek asks after a bit.

"Nerd is _in_, actually." Stiles grins. "And hey, you're a nerd too. Right? A business nerd. Those are the worst."

"There's a difference." Derek leans forward and lowers his voice. "Come to think of it, though, it is kind of hot."

"Me being a nerd?" Stiles narrows his eyes as Derek just shrugs, leans back again. "I _guess_ I'm fine with you being a hip—"

"_Not_ a hipster."

"Totally are a hipster," Stiles confirms. "Anyone who denies their hipster status is _automatically_, a hipster."

"I hate interviews," Derek mutters, low enough that it was probably meant as rhetorical. Stiles doesn't _do_ rhetorical, though.

"We're interviewing each other? Like, a dating interview?" Stiles nods. "Yeah. I guess. Better way to spend the time than acting as referee to _whatever_ is happening downstairs."

It's quiet downstairs. Too quiet. Stiles is not afraid to admit he's using this flirt/interrogation/interview thing as a way to procrastinate.

"So now, what, we know each other?" Derek grins, reaching out to grab Stiles' hand.

"It's a start." Stiles pauses, squeezes Derek's hand. "A good start."

"Yeah." Derek nods. "I think it is."

They kind of just stay there for a moment, looking at each other, not really doing anything except, well, _looking. _Because they can. Because they have a rare free moment. Because, for fuck's sake, they _want _to.

"You think Park's dead yet?" He asks after a bit, standing.

"Nah, would've smelled it." Derek stands as well. "If it makes you feel any better, I can't stand Wes Anderson."

"Oh, well, hipster status revoked," Stiles jokes, because no, it is not.

* * *

It takes Derek ten minutes to get his clothes, change, and for Stiles and him to join the others in the living room. Mostly because he won't let go of Stiles' hand. Well, he does for the actual changing part. But for everything else, he just pulls Stiles along with him. They trudge out to Laura's car (walking past the living room, where everyone is sitting silently…and ominously), then to dad's study so Derek can get dressed, then there's some more blatant flirting, then Stiles gets a coke from the fridge, which Derek steals half of, so he has to get another one, and then, _then_, they join the others.

Everyone glares at them, even Park Jae Soon, who really should _not_ be glaring in a house full of werewolves she spelled, when they walk in.

"Getting to know each other?" Lydia hisses. "Why not just go on a date, it's not like we're doing anything _important_ here."

"He—" Derek looks more hurt than angry. Stiles gets angry for him.

"No," he growls. And maybe_, maybe_, his eyes flash a red warning. "You don't get to do that, Lydia."

She looks taken aback for a moment, then, after a tense second, her eyes widen, and her mouth forms an O. Stiles hopes she's remembering that he's the one who has the most to lose in this situation; that she doesn't get to guilt him into ignoring his mate, the only thing that's keeping him from just saying _fuck it all_ and running to attack Lackhart head on, which would inevitably end in grievous injury and/ or death; that she doesn't get to tell him that he's not making the pack a priority when he's been—no, they've all been—driving themselves crazy trying to fix this. She doesn't get to do that. She doesn't get to decide that. And she doesn't get to bring it up now, in front of present company, of all places.

Anyway, he hopes that's what she's thinking, and not planning his ultimate demise for _daring_ to shut her down.

"Sorry," she says. Yay! No plotting! "I'm just—we're all just nervous."

"I know." Stiles waggles his fingers around his head. "Magic pack bond, remember?"

Park Jae Soon hunches in on herself at the mention of the spell, which makes him turn to her. Which makes all of them turn to her, actually. Werewolves (okay, and incubi, especially incubi who are part of a werewolf pack), after all, are quite in tune to body language.

"We want you to tell us what Steyna is using us for," Jackson says, voice all growly and intimidating. Stiles can't believe he's being forced into playing good-cop/bad cop.

"What Jackson means, Miss Park," Stiles corrects. "is that getting out of this whole…_situation_ is going to be easier if we work together. So, if you could fill us in on what Lackhart is going to do with us…"

"You're…going to _help,_" Park Jae Soon says. Or asks. Stiles can't tell if it's a question or a statement.

"You were kept prisoner in your own home." Stiles leans against the sofa chair next to Scott and puts his hands in his pockets. "You said something about your parents, which I'm assuming is part of the reason you're doing this. You're under a spell similar to the one—well _ones_, if you count the pack bond amplifier or whatever it's called—we're under."

Park's eyes go wide at the mention of her parents, and her lips tremble. "She has them. She has my parents. I don't know where. She won't," she gasps out a sob. "she won't let me talk to them, and I don't know if—if—_fuck_."

"The others, are they the same?" Danny asks before Stiles can tell him to stop. Her eyes are going wide; her pupils are dilating; her heart rate is skyrocketing. All signs that they maybe need to back off for, like, a second.

"Y-yes," she gasps out, tears now streaming down her face. "All of them. Their parents. Their friends. I think she has Janet's _daughters_, for fuck's sake, you have to—" she chokes, and Stiles hears as her throat closes up, her chest struggling to take in air and failing miserably.

"Jae," He's crouched in front of her in a matter of seconds, bringing his hands up to rub at her shoulders, speaking in a low murmur. "Jae, calm down. You're having a panic attack. You need to _breathe_."

When that doesn't work, he grabs her hands, which, thankfully, makes her look up at him. Granted, her eyes are wide and terrified and panicky, but at least he has her attention.

"Breath in," he says, and she does. "good. Breath out. Concentrate on breathing," He remembers what his doctor used to tell him about the attacks. "just think about, uh, inhaling and exhaling."

Ugh, he's so glad he's never going to be doctor.

It's slow, but, eventually, her lungs are expanding and contracting normally, enough that Stiles lets her hands go.

"Sorr—" She starts. Stiles shakes his head.

"Just a panic attack, Jae." He figures helping someone get over a panic attack is enough to call them by their first name. Or, well, half of their first name. He'll stop if she tells him. "I used to get them all the time."

"But you're a…" Jae scrunches her nose. "werewolf."

"And you're a witch," Stiles offers, which gets her to laugh. He's not comfortable enough that he's going to talk about how, after his mother had died, he could barely go a day without collapsing. How it took him until he was five – two years after she was gone – until he didn't shift and almost hurt his dad every time they happened. How it was another five years before he could go six months without getting one. How, for the first half of his junior year in high school, he started getting them again. He's over that now. It's not important.

"Touche." She swallows once, then her eyes narrow, and she looks up at him. "My father is human."

"What." Stiles keeps the growl out of his voice, but only barely.

"She has…my parents. My mother is a witch. My father is human. One of Janet's daughters is human. There's, uh, _I think_ a human boyfriend. She's keeping them somewhere, not the coven compound, but som—"

"She has you under a spell, why does she need leverage?" Allison asks from behind him. Jae shakes her head.

"That's how she got us under the spell. It's been…two months for me. Two of the others—there are ten of us—have been under for almost three. She kidnapped my parents," Jae takes a shaky breath. "told me she'd kill them if I didn't agree to join her _coven_," She spits out the word like a cuss. "and then got me bonded to the others."

"To do what?" Stiles prompts.

"We're in the database as part of the Lackhart coven, but we've never met any of the others. They don't know we exist," she starts. "She couldn't make the real coven members help with the spell without getting caught. The DSOI monitors them, especially since—"

"-Leyla's death," Scott finishes.

"Yeah. Initially, she was just going to use _us_ as the power source, but turns out she would've been the focus point—"

"Which would've proven useless the entire scheme in the first place." Jackson nods.

"Stop interrupting," Stiles growls.

"Yeah, that's right." Jae nods. "So she re-crafted the spell, made it specifically for werewolves, because, I guess, you have the most raw power out of all the weres, and then made us go find possible…targets."

"And how were we chosen?" Stiles asks.

"You had a strong pack bond already." Jae looks down at him finally, eyes wide and beseeching. "Steyna said the stronger the pack bond, the more the amplifier would work, and the more power she could get from it…from you."

"So you spelled Scott after you got him drunk," Stiles prompts.

"I didn't want to, Sti—Stiles." Jae says. "You have to understa—"

"I understand," Stiles says, because Jae's breathing is getting erratic again. "Doesn't mean it doesn't suck ass, but I understand."

"I…thank you." Jae nods. Stiles lets her breathe for a moment, getting up to walk over to Derek, who wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him to his side. He plops his head on Derek's shoulder for a bit, then sighs and stands straight.

"You haven't told us what she wants, yet," he says.

"I—I'm not sure," She whispers. It's an obvious lie. One that makes the werewolves growl and Danny hiss.

"You're lying," Laura snarls.

"I'm not!" Jae holds her hands up, palms out, in a placating gesture. "She never told us what she was planning, but…" She cringes. "when we were being held at…her compound, before the spell took hold, some of us managed to piece some things together."

"And?" Stiles prompts.

"She spent seven years in prison for murder," Jae says, voice almost a whisper. "was part of a prison gang that had some bad people in it. Including, uh, Wes Jensen."

"The half-fae who was planning to bomb the DSOI headquarters," Lydia says. "The guy who's suspected of being a _serial killer_, and is only still alive because there's no actual proof? That guy?"

"Yeah."

"And?" Stiles growls, looks up at the ceiling.

"And, him and her, they kind of…uh love each other," Jae sighs, makes finger quotes around the word "love". Stiles grins, but then he stops, because he suddenly gets it.

"We're being used," he says. Growls. Asks. Seethes. "our lives are literally being fucking _sucked _out of us to break a psychotic _douchedick _out of high security prison. So he can reunite with his ladylove?"

"She was incarcerated at West Grayson," Danny says, like _that's_ supposed to make Stiles feel better. "The specs for their security spells have never been breached. They've got it on a rotating queue, with smart-spell integration and a couple thousand—"

"So how is she planning," Stiles growls. "on getting to him?"

"I think…I think she's trying to just…" Jae winces. "power through it."

"You mean she's going to try to overload it," Allison says, "by using our power for her spells."

"…yeah."

"And these attacks that we've been getting? Precursors to the real thing?" Lydia asks, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. That's her thinking face. Stiles loves her thinking face.

"I'm not sure," Jae whispers, sinking back into the chair. "She said something about steps she needs to take before she can…do it."

"How many steps," Stiles says.

"Si—no, seven."

"So we have four more of those to go," Scott says. "There was yesterday morning, one last night. The last one was…while Stiles was out."

"So, if that's a trend," Lydia agrees, talking slowly, her thinking face still on. "We can expect two a day. So, one more tonight—"

Derek growls next to Stiles, pulling him closer.

"—one more tonight. Then tomorrow two more. Which means Steyna's planning the breakout to happen late Friday evening."

Stiles lets that sink in. He has two days. Two days to find a way to stop Steyna, rescue the humans, and get the witches to give him and his pack their life back. He realizes, with a sinking feeling, that it's too much. He can handle a lot. No, they can_ all_ handle a lot. They fucking _owned _that banshee, even if it had been painful and horrible and embarrassing and…

Anyway, they had owned the banshee. They had come out on top whenever life served them a whole fucking bucket of supernatural lemons. It's not now—not because of some lovelorn murdering psychopath—that they're going to get stupid and die.

Stiles suspects that Steyna isn't going to just use them. She's going to kill them. Either by sucking all of their time, or by finishing them off when they're too weak to do anything but let her. And he's _not_ going to let that happen. Never has. Never will.

"I'm calling dad," he blurts out before he even really thinks about, but realizes, when his pack immediately starts murmuring their assent, that this is the right thing to do. Jae looks at him in utter confusion. "My dad's the sheriff. We're getting the cops involved."

There's suddenly an aura of palpable relief, but then…

"I thought you said the cops suck at stuff like this?" Isaac asks.

"When it's something supernatural that's not a priority," Allison supplies.

"But now we're dealing with kidnapped humans," Stiles continues. "We have a witness. Reasonable suspicion that Steyna Lackhart is attempting to break a dangerous criminal out of a maximum security prison. The magic bond stuff…they're not going to help us there. They're going to take the other stuff seriously. Especially if dad's involved."

He doesn't say that his dad is going to give him that look again. A combination of disappointment and worry and frustration and anger. The one that makes him feel horrible. That he really never wants to see again every time he _does _see it. Which is a lot.

"You don't mess with humans," he says, kind of as an afterthought. "Steyna crossed a line there."

* * *

When Stiles calls his dad, tells him that he needs his help, it takes ten minutes for him to get home, even though the station is easily a twenty minute drive away. His patrol car squeals into the driveway, but when he walks in, his face is neutral. Bland, even. Almost amused.

His heartbeat, though, and his shallow breathing, and the minute tick in his right pointer finger, give him away.

"Expanding the pack, son?" He asks when Stiles leads him to the living room, where everyone is still sitting. Well, except for Erica and Isaac, who had meandered into the kitchen five minutes ago to make themselves sandwiches, and are now eating them as they stand behind the couch.

"Kind of," Stiles says. Everyone had agreed earlier that he should tell his dad about this alone, which is why this is just an introduction of sorts. "Everyone, meet my dad. Dad, meet everyone. That's Laura, Isaac, Erica, and Derek. And Jae Soon."

"And they're…pack." Dad looks at him, eyebrows raised in confusion. Stiles shrugs.

"Pretty much." He gestures towards the kitchen with his thumb. "I'll explain in here. All right?"

"Yeah, yeah," The Sheriff sighs. "did you guys leave the coffee from this morning? That stuff was goo-"

"I'll—" Derek starts, clears his throat, his cheeks suddenly pinkish. Fucking adorable asshole. "I'll make you some more, Sheriff Stilinski."

"You made it?" Dad asks, already walking. Stiles grins and shakes his head as he follows, Derek next to him.

"I, uh, my family owns a coffee shop," Derek answers. Stiles hears a snicker from the living room. It sounds like Erica.

"All right," Stiles starts when his dad just leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyeing him suspiciously. Derek has to reach behind him to get a mug, and Stiles is struck by how _right_ it all seems. Them together, in the kitchen, that is. Well, if they weren't in here to explain the whole evil-life-sucking-witch situation. "There's…good news. And there's bad news, whi—"

"Good news. It's usually less complicated and shorter." Dad sighs, rubs his temples. "Get on with it, Stiles. I know it's not good. You never tell me anything unless it's not goo—"

"I have a mate," Stiles mutters. There's a moment of silence. He hears his dad's heart stutter, and than it's going fast, and he can practically _taste_ the happiness and surprise and pride and, yeah, maybe a little bit of sadness, in the air.

"That's great, son. That's—" The Sheriff laughs. "That's actually amazing. Who's the idiot who's stuck with you?"

Stiles cringes, points at Derek, who's frozen, wide-eyed, one hand holding the bag of coffee grounds, the other holding a measuring spoon. Dad visibly blanches.

"Sheriff," Derek says. He puts down the measuring spoon and holds out his hand. "Derek Hale."

"Well, crap," Dad murmurs as he eyes Derek up and down, shaking his hand as he does so. "Didn't know you went for tall, dark, and handsome, son. Good job, though. He's a looker."

There's a sudden coughing fit in the living room, and Derek blushes, murmuring something about unnecessary compliments, and Stiles really just wants to sink into the floor.

"So, Hale? As in _Where the Hale is My Coffee_?" Dad asks. He's using his I-already-know-the-answer voice. Stiles sink into the nearest chair.

"My uncle owns it," Derek explains. "I moved back to open another store for him."

"And when did you guys meet?"

"Yesterday," Stiles mutters, because Derek is a mute all of a sudden. The sheriff raises a single eyebrow. His right. It's never a good sign when dad raises an eyebrow. Especially the one on the right. It means he's making connections.

"Is that why you had Scott up against that wall yesterday morning?" He gestures towards the wall in question. There's another fit of coughing from the living room. Stiles shakes his head. "With the claws and the snarling?"

"No, it was after. The…the wall stuff is part of the, um, the bad news."

"Oh." The sheriff sits down across from Stiles, expression serious. Behind him, the coffee starts to drip. Derek leans up against the counter and gives Stiles what is probably supposed to be an encouraging smile. But it seems stilted and on edge, and all it does is make him more nervous.

He takes a deep breath, and looks at his dad for a moment, cataloging sights and smells as he hashes out what he's going to say in his head. Randomly, he realizes that he hasn't asked Park Jae Soon if she and the other witches can give them back their life after all of this is over. He needs to tell her before dad calls his deputies. No, before dad starts questioning her himself. Which is going to happen right after this explanation session is over.

"_Stiles,_" he growls. Stiles thinks it's because he grew up with a son as a werewolf that the growl sounds so _wolfy. _

"All right," Stiles catches Derek's eye, just for a second, wondering errantly if they're more green than blue, or more yellow than either color, then turns back to his dad. "so there's this witch…"

The explanation takes longer, but it's to be expected. The last time he had to do this, he was telling Derek, and they didn't know anything. At least, not anything as terrifying as what they know now. Dad is still throughout the whole thing. Rigid, his cop persona a blanket around him. Stiles can smell the anger and fear. He can see it, too. Underneath the rigidness, there's a nervous kind of tick in his left eye, and when he takes hold of the coffee mug Derek holds out to him a little later, his hand is trembling.

When he finishes, dad fixes him with _that_ look. And it's hard not to break eye contact. It's hard not to break down and apologize for all of this. For not being a good enough son. For scaring him, when he should never have to go through what happened with mom again. He doesn't break eye contact though; he doesn't move. He sits, and he meets that stare, because he deserves it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek staring at him. He knows he can feel everything Stiles is feeling. From the living room, he hears whining, and he knows they can too. They can all feel his guilt and his anger and desperation, and that they can feel it just makes it _worse_.

He lets the silence go on for a couple of seconds, then he smiles. "Remember when I was under eighteen, and you could just ground me?"

It's a sucky attempt at humor, but it gets a bark of laughter out of dad, and it gives Stiles the chance to look down at his lap and inhale long and deep.

"I'm going to call the DSOI, Stiles." The Sheriff—because he's in sheriff mode now—says after a bit, and Stiles looks up with a nod. "This is bigger than my jurisdiction allows. If it's West Greyson, the FBI might even get involved. You can handle it?"

"We need to be able to move," he answers after a bit, "the DSOI and the FBI are going to concentrate on Park Jae Soon and the kidnappings. They're not going to be able to fix…" He gestures at himself. "_this_."

"You want to go after Steyna."

"We don't have the time to play catch up, again, dad." Stiles winces. "Or warrants, or playing it by the book, or codes of conduct, or any of it."

The sheriff nods. He takes a sip of his coffee, drums his fingers on the table for a bit, looking anywhere but at Stiles.

"Fine," he says, "but you need to make a plan _now_. Because I'm calling this in. Agents are going to be all over the place within the hour, so…"

Stiles grins. "On Saturday, you are _so_ allowed actual real bacon."

"Oh, well, thank you," his dad returns dryly, already digging his cell phone out of his pocket. "Good to know I have your permission."

While he calls it in, Stiles goes to back in to the living room, Derek behind him. There's one more thing he needs to do before they can go forward with, well, whatever it is that they're going to do about this. He sits on the edge of the coffee table (hey, it's wood, it'll hold him) in front of Park.

"If we get you out of this," Stiles starts with a wince, because there's really no way to ask this delicately. "do you think you can rid of the bond spell? And the time suck spell? And then _return_ that time back to us?"

"We did some research yesterday," Scott speaks up. "it said that it's possible in theory."

"We…could," Jae says after a bit. "We'd need to get rid of the bond spell over us, first. When the hostages are out, I think we could just power through that one. My parents," she takes a deep breath. "they'd need to get the hostages out first. Steyna will know what's happening as soon as we attempt any kind of magic."

"Once the hostages are safe. Once the others are unbound to Steyna?" Stiles prompts. He tries to keep his voice calm. Doesn't really work.

"Y-yeah. Yeah I think it's possible. Your…connection to Steyna would have to be broken first." She's looking at her lap as she talks, picking at the hem of her dirty dress. "That's the spell that's taking your time. And then you could be…unbounded."

"And then? That would return it to us?" Stiles asks. "The time?"

"We just need…someone to take the power back from." She squints her eyes in thought. "I'd have to ask the others, but I'm pretty sure it's impossible to take it from Steyna at that point, since we would, technically, be unbound from her. She's the focus point."

"What about…the rest of the Lackhart coven? Are you still bound to them?" Erica speaks up. Everyone turns to stare, and she shrugs. "I was looking over what you guys had found, and there are a lot of them. Fifty, or something. And you wouldn't, necessarily, be taking their _lives_ away, but actual power to replace your time, so…"

"Y-yeah, that could work. There would still be a faint connection, I think, even though we've never actually met any of the others." Jae nods. "And it would reset the balance, as well. If they're not with Steyna, they won't be against it. If they are, well," Jae suddenly gets a hard look on her face. "then they don't get a say."

"Good." Derek crosses his arms over his chest where he's standing behind the sofa, looks at Stiles with raised eyebrows. Goddamn look at those cheekbones, Stiles suddenly thinks. "So, what's the plan?"

Theoretically, Stiles knows what needs to happen. The hostages need to be found; the other witches need to be found; Steyna needs to be stopped. Sounds simple, except, well, it's not, because no one knows where the humans are, they don't know _who _they are, they don't know where the other witches are, and they definitely do not know where Steyna is. So all of it is just kind of overwhelming. And way over their heads.

He knows that once the authorities are involved, they're going to be working under a tight leash. But they can't handle finding all of the witches, and then all of the human hostages, and _then_ finding Steyna. They can help, though. He just doesn't really know…_how_, yet.

"I don't know," Stiles says after a bit. "But I'm starving. Who's up for Korean takeout?"

* * *

By the time night falls some four hours later, Stiles still doesn't have a plan.

He does, however, have five DSOI and three FBI agents, as well as a bevy of deputies and police officers, using his living room as an impromptu base of operations. His pack (he's going to include Laura, Erica, Isaac, and Derek in that, because, one, it's inevitable, and two, it's kind of a pain in the ass making the distinction between them) has been sequestered in the kitchen, watched over by a rookie cop who can't seem to take his eyes off Danny. He supposes the attraction is mutual, because every once in a while, they have to stop images of said rookie naked and debauched from making them flinch.

His and Danny's laptops have been taken away, as well as the spell book. Stiles doesn't want to know what's happening to his baby. He just knows that if _anyone_ screws with her, he's going to rip some heads off.

And then possibly demand compensation or whatever.

Park Jae Soon is in the living room being interrogated. Stiles doesn't know whether the interrogator—Agent Morell, or something—is from the DSOI or the FBI. She hadn't been wearing a badge when he'd been the one being interrogated. She seems mysterious, though. Plus she didn't smell particularly human. And he can't hear what they're talking about. There's some kind of field that's stopping any of them from eavesdropping on what the agents are doing.

None of them had been allowed to move since the house had been invaded. Since his territory had been _invaded. _It's making his wolf go fucking crazy.

They've just been sitting here, then sitting in the living room being interrogated, then sitting in here, again.

They've just been sitting here, waiting. Waiting for the agents to come, eating Korean takeout; waiting as they were all questioned; waiting for something, _anything_, to happen. Every time Stiles tried to help, he had been sent back into the kitchen while agents from both organizations had eyed him nervously, one hand clasped on their guns. They hadn't let them do anything other than answer questions. Not even after all of them had made it clear their lives were in danger. Very real, very painful, very intimidating, _danger_.

Assfuckdickbags.

He suspects that his pack aren't the only ones waiting. The agents need proof to get started on their literal witch hunt, and what better proof than a bunch of fucking werewolves suddenly collapsing in a heap of agony and fear?

Yup, so they're just waiting here, waiting to get attacked, unable to do _anything_ because they _can't_. Even if they got away—and they could, quite easily—they wouldn't know where to start. The only option, now, is to cooperate.

Fucking fucksticks. Stiles hates this. He _hates _the waiting. Hates it because he knows what's going to come at the end of it.

Pain, mostly.

"It happened around seven last night, didn't it?" He asks no one in particular. They all know what "it" refers to. The clocks on the stove and the microwave (and the coffee maker) all say it's between 6:43 and 6:49. So it'll be soon, then.

"Yeah." Danny eyes the rookie cop for a second, then turns back to Stiles with a look in his eye. It takes a while for Stiles to recognize it as fear.

"This morning," Stiles starts. "were you guys able to control yourselves while it happened?"

Derek, already tense before he had started talking, pulls Stiles closer, even though they're already sitting side-to-side, and rests his head on Stiles shoulder.

"Better than last night," Danny answers. "No one went full alpha. Just a lot of…screaming."

Stiles nods, then turns to the cop. "Officer…uh," he looks at his nametag. "Daehler?"

"Matt," The cop says, and Stiles doesn't miss that his smile is meant for Danny, not him. "Matt Daehler."

"Matt, then," Stiles says. "The last time we were…attacked, it happened around this time. Could you go warn my da—the Sheriff?"

Matt doesn't argue, just rushes to the living room. The barrier, or whatever it is, stops Stiles from hearing what is being said, so he just sighs, sinks lower in his chair, slides closer to Derek, and closes his eyes.

To wait.

"I feel like we've just been sitting at tables for two days," Jackson suddenly says, not ungrumpily. Everyone laughs, because it's kind of true. No, actually, _very _true. Usually they're all over the place for these things. But this…this _event_ has been…it's been different.

"Bored?" Stiles grins. "Try being bored _and_ sexually frustrated, dude."

"Uh, right here, Stilinski," Danny says.

"You don't _count_, Danny. You're _always_ sexually frustrated." Allison slaps Danny over the head.

"This is lovely and all, but could we not talk about how you're sexually frustrated in regards to my big bro?" Erica mutters.

"Awwwwwwww. You call him big bro? That's fucking adorable, Erica," Stiles says.

"Fuck you, Stilinski," Erica growls, though her cheeks turn pink. Derek huffs out a laugh into his shoulder.

"Well, I mean, that's what I _want _Derek to do, among other—" Everyone groans before he can finish.

"Bad joke, bro." Scott shakes his head. "_Bad_ joke. Also, way too much info, okay?"

"Kind of like how you used to—" Stiles says, gesturing between him and Allison

"Hey!" Scott looks hurt. "We were in _high school_, all right?!"

"You told _Stiles_ about us havi—" Allison looks livid, but then Sheriff Stilinski and three agents—two DSOI, one FBI—walk into the kitchen, and she shuts up in favor of glaring at them.

"Stiles, you said it may happen soon?" His dad asks, and Stiles purposefully holds his breath, doesn't look at him so he doesn't smell and see the nervousness and fear. He's already got enough of his own—he doesn't need to add his dad's to the mixture.

"Yup," he says, going for nonchalant. "We don't know if it's going to be bad, so maybe you should, just," he eyes the archway that leads to kitchen, "stay out of the kitchen. Out of the way, you know."

"Oh, and don't let any of those assheads shoot us," Jackson says after a moment. "I smelled wolfsbane in there. Which is a dick move, guys, really."

"Right." Stiles nods his agreement. Along with everyone else, really. Thankfully, none of them have ever been shot with a wolfsbane bullet, but they have internet. And the internet has youtube. They've seen what it does. They've all had nightmares about it. So, no wolfsbane is a good thing. "there's no need for wolfsbane bullets. Really. We haven't attacked anyone during any of these things. Just…we roll around a lot. In pain. And, and maybe scream?"

"Stiles…" Dad says.

"You should…probably not watch this, dad. It's just really dramatic, is all it is." Stiles tries to make his face look casual. Fails miserably. Whatever his expression says just makes his dad shake his head.

"I'm staying right here," he says. There's a beat of silence, then he changes the subject. "They've tracked down three of the other witches. Haven't gotten them, yet — not until the humans are rescued — but it's almost over."

"That — that's good," Stiles says. Because, well, it is. Even though this is not _almost over_. It is far from over.

It's 6:56 pm when Stiles feels the vertigo that he's come to recognize as a kind of pre-attack warning. He whines, a high-pitched, inarguably wolfish sound, and that's all the warning the others get.

* * *

"Fuuuuuuckin douchedicks," is how Stiles chooses to greet consciousness again. After he wakes up. From being unconscious. Because he fainted. Again. Five minutes into it. Just up and fainted. The last thing he remembers is, well, the pain, and also hitting his head against Derek's jaw.

Which is hard. Like granite. Fuzzy granite.

He's, err, curled up around someone. Derek, from the smell of him. There are voices. But there's a dull roar in his ears that makes figuring out what they're saying kind of impossible. There's light, slipping in from where he's pretty sure his head is resting on Derek's chest. A hand is petting down his back, and that's nice — that's _really _nice. He wonders, again, if werewolves can get away with purring in public.

He's probably in public. What with the voices and all.

"—iles. _Stiles_." One of the voices — Derek's, _duh _— manages to pierce its way through whatever asshole anti-hearing fog Stiles is trapped in. He makes a sound to let Derek know he's listening. "You awake?'

"No." Stiles figures acting like a six year old is at least somewhat permissible in these kind of situations. "I'm sleep-talking. _Obviously_."

Then there are warm hands holding his head, tilting it up, and he's meeting Derek's eyes as they look down at him, all furrowed worry and vulnerability.

Ugh, why can't they just have sex already?

Stiles realizes he said that out loud when Derek smirks and kisses his forehead.

"I kind of think your pack would never recover." Derek looks behind him, where said pack is probably either still out cold, or hovering. Stiles ignores either possibility in lieu of a more pressing problem.

"You're pack," he mumbles, letting his head drop down to rest on Derek's chest again. The position lets him feel the vibration when Derek's heart stutters. And, from the way Derek freezes, it seems like he's taking his words as a kind of declaration. A declaration of intent. Although, if Derek is enough of a brick-wall to have ignored the fact that Stiles has been _really_ okay with this whole mate thing since about an hour after they met, then maybe he should reconsider…

"Stiles…"

"Ugh, you're pack, hipsterwolf. Stop making me think, it's giving me a heada—_oh_, keep your hand there." Stiles shudders when Derek's hand comes to cradle the back of his head. "Yeah, that feels good."

"Good," Derek rumbles after a bit. "I'm not a hipster."

"Agree to disagree," Stiles mumbles back.

He starts hearing the other voices again a little bit later. A lot later? Stiles doesn't know anything except that it's later. His dad, for one. A couple of the feds. Scott and Allison are murmuring sweet nothings to each other, as are Jackson and Lydia. Danny is laughing softly at something…_hah_, at something Officer Daehler is saying. And Laura, Erica, and Isaac are just kind of…there. Not talking. At least, not out loud. But he can smell them, and he can hear them breathing, and it makes him feel better that he can.

He gives himself another moment just to soak it all in, then he leans back from where he's—oh, okay then. He's curled up in Derek's lap like a child. Well that's just…yeah, that's embarrassing.

"Well this is manly," he manages as he stretches one leg out to reach the floor. They're still at the kitchen table, so Derek is holding him on one of the rickety wooden chairs. Stiles is amazed it didn't collapse with both of them in it. When he _is_ finally able to stand, after blindly stretching his leg out to meet the floor, it's only because Derek sees what he's doing and stands himself, pulling Stiles with him.

"How long?" Stiles asks.

"You were out for an hour," Derek growls. Stiles wonders if he growls in bed. He _has_ to, right? Even Stiles growls in bed. Or used to, when he had a sex life. It comes with the territory. Sex growls are to werewolves as…as…crap, Stiles used to be good at those.

"Anything happen?" Stiles looks around. "Where's Jae Soon?"

"With Agent Morell in your…living room." A hawk-nosed man wearing one of those ink-black DSOI jackets steps out form where he's been talking with a couple of other agents. "They're talki—"

"You're still interrogating her?" Stiles makes a face. "Sounds fun."

"Mr. Stilinski, this is serious," The man says. Next to Stiles, Derek growls, and Stiles, well, Stiles might growl too a bit. Just a little bit, though.

"Really? Agent..." He looks for a nametag, finds none.

"Conner. Agent Conner," The Agent supplies. Which is a lie, but whatever.

"Really? Agent _Conner_," he continues. "I think that I know _more than anyone else_ how fucking serious this is. I have, _literally_, the most to lose if we don't find Lackhart."

"We're currently in the middle of—"

"Finding the other witches. Got that much from my dad. Last I heard." Stiles takes a step forward, ignores when Agent Conner rests his hand on his weapon. "you had 'found' three. Not moving too fast there, are ya?"

"We're concentrating on getting the humans out, first, Mr. Stilinski," Agent Conner says. Stiles nods.

"Got it. Humans are the first priority. But what's next, Agent _Conner_? What's your next priority?" Stiles grins. "Because I know it sure as hell isn't us."

By now, the other agents in the room have gotten smart to the fact that an alpha werewolf in their vicinity is currently not very happy, and have fallen silent. Stiles ignores them. He's not angry, per say. Just…fed up? A bit scared? So, if having a slight tantrum will get _someone _to just, ya know, pay attention, them maybe he won't die.

"I get that, really," he continues. "We're not the evil psycho half-fae who's possibly planning a prison break. So _of course, _you're going to concentrate on first upping the security at West Greyson." When Conner's heart beats faster, Stiles knows it's the truth. "But have you thought about what happens if Steyna just goes ahead and tries to break him out anyway? Tries to overcome those spells?"

Stiles has a headache. Also, his pack is scared and nervous. Which isn't a change from usual, but it's more pronounced this time. Maybe because he's slightly hysterical as well.

"I'm going to _die_, if she does that, Agent _Conner,_" Stiles growls. Saying it out loud makes it so much more shittier. "My pack might _die_. She's going to kill me, and maybe my pack, and, as of now, it seems like you don't really care. I mean, that's six lives, Agent. Six civilian casualties that you're going to have to do the paper-work for. So_,_ Agent_ Conner_," Stiles snarls this time, canines elongated. "I think, that of the two of us, I know more about how _serious_ this situation is."

"I'm aware of that -" Agent Conner nods. "- _we're_ aware of that. Which is why Agent Morell sent me in here, after attaining permission from headquarters, to ask if you are willing to help us catch Miss Lackhart before she attempts anything like that."

Stiles blinks. "Oh. Well." The grin all but slithers across his features, and he doesn't resist the temptation to clap Agent Conner on his shoulder. "Of course. Why didn't you just say so?"

"…Can I just say it's kind of hot when you get hot and bothered? I mean, I'm more into girls, yeah, but that was...hot," Isaac sayss, maybe after a minute of awkward silence, where Agent Conner is just staring at Stiles, and his dad is chuckling, and the others are kind of also staring at him, but more out of the side of their eyes than actual full-frontal staring.

"Shut up, Isaac," Derek growls, and Stiles laughs, kisses him on the cheek before he follows Agent Conner out into the living room.

* * *

Agent Morell is what would happen if Lydia ever decided she would be much better suited as a federal agent than as a physicist. The woman, or, err, not quite woman, is intimidating. She's a bad-ass. A BAMF. She smells like…like, well, _nothing_, actually. Or, no, she smells like neutrality, which is apparently a scent now.

Anyway, Agent Morell (that name is probably as much of a lie as _Conner_, but Stiles bets he would have a hard time hearing Morrell's heartbeat stutter in response to her lying) is one cool lady. And she's even cooler, at least in Stiles' eyes, since she's letting them find Steyna _before_, ya know, the witch kills them.

"—Stilinski?" Agent Morell asks something, but Stiles is—well, Stiles isn't paying attention, so he doesn't catch it. Ever since waking up he's felt…_off_. Weak. Kind of…old? His attention span isn't the greatest either.

"Sorry, I was…" Stiles shrugs. "thinking."

"That's the spell." Park Jae Soon, sitting next to Agent Morell in what looks like one of Lydia's dresses, her hair still wet and dripping from a recent shower, nods her head towards Stiles. His pack, standing around the room because all of the chairs have been commandeered by federal agents and their equipment, look up in confusion. And alarm. But mostly confusion. "You not being able to concentrate? Feeling older? Achy, maybe? It will keep getting worse until you break it, and it'll only get better when we do the reversal spell on her coven."

"About that," Agent Morell says. "We've already contacted the Lackhart coven, who are in complete support of allowing their power to be used for said spell. We also have most under protective custody—"

"But no sign of Lackhart herself," Stiles says.

"Yes, that's what I was saying." Agent Morrell nods. Huh. She reminds him of the cylons – not the humanoid ones, the distinctly robotic ones – from Battlestar Galactica. Maybe she's a robot? Although, even then, he'd probably at least smell, like, the electricity or something on her…

Stiles taps his fingers against the back of the sofa, letting himself tune out even before Agent Morell starts talking again. He knows it may not be the best idea, but he needs to think, and he doesn't think he can handle two things at once. Not now. Not with how weird his head is feeling. And anyway, whatever he misses, the others will fill him in on.

Probably.

Agent Morell had told them, right after Agent Conner had brought everyone into the living room, that they had since found—actually _found_ and _rescued _– the nine other witches. Who are now en route to various safe houses. Stiles isn't sure whether he feels more relieved, for, well, obvious reasons, or disappointed, because all the action seems to be happening when Stiles is either in extreme pain or is unconscious.

Steyna isn't at the coven compound. She isn't at her apartment, or at Leyla Lackhart's abandoned home. She isn't anywhere. Except she exists, because she keeps doing_ stuff_. Stuff that is decidedly _not good_. Like, you know, sucking time and stuff. And everyone seems to agree that wherever Steyna is, that's where the hostages are.

When he had heard this, Stiles had thought it strange that they had rescued the witches before the humans. Then Morrell had pointed out that if Steyna knows the witches are gone, it's because they got Park Jae Soon out first. And then she'd given them a look that had made even Lydia wince. Come to think of it, Agent Conner had suddenly looked like he had swallowed a lemon.

Stiles knows there's something in that line of thought that's important. Not the Agent Morell part; the Steyna part. The police and the feds are using all the usual avenues to search for her – computer sweeps and surveillance footage and other, less technically inclined stuff that is probably really boring. Anyway, the point is that there are at least fifty agents and police offers on this thing, not including those that have been sent to protect the witches, or those that have been sent to West Greyson to work on the security there…

Stiles squints and starts pacing.

Yeah, so, there's something there. Okay, but what?

In a haze, kind of, Stiles vaguely notices as he walks by Derek once, twice, three times, meeting his eyes, distracted, each time, before turning away to continue his pacing. He doesn't like this. Doesn't like having to think with a killer headache and joints that feel like he's fifty instead of twenty three, doesn't like that the threat is invisible, doesn't like that she's a-

_A witch_.

Oh, okay. There's something.

"Jae Soon," Stiles mutters, comes to a stop to see that everyone is looking at him. His pack in expectation; the agents in…confusion? Yeah, that looks like confusion. "we're bonded to Steyna, right? So is there a spell that could use _us_ to somehow…" He makes what he thinks of as a tracking gesture. Or, well, just flails his arms around, really. "track her?"

"…I don't — " Jae narrows her eyes. "She could be anywhere, though."

"West Greyson," Stiles and…and Agent Morell say at pretty much the same time. Okay, weird. Agent Morell inclines her head at him at the same time Stiles gestures for her to finish.

"Our analysts have her within a two hundred mile radius from West Greyson Penitentiary. For obvious reasons," Agent Morrll says, looking at Stiles.

"_Is_ there something you could do?" Agent Conner asks. "That's actually a good idea."

Stiles beams at him.

"Nothing that I…remember, but I could call Sen. She's better at making up spells on the fly than me…" Stiles assumes Sen is one of the other witches when Jae Soon looks hopefully at Agent Morell.

Instead of saying anything, Morell just nods, once, abruptly, at Agent Conner, who sighs as he gets his cell out.

"How fast do you want to end this, Mr. Stilinski?" She asks.

"As soon as possible?" Stiles hopes that's the right answer. It should be, right?

"Good answer." She grins, and Stiles wonders whether he should pat himself on the back or run away, far away. "West Greyson is a two hour drive away, and I'm sure there's enough space in our vans to do whatever it is Miss Park needs to do."

"We're going?" Isaac asks. Morrell eyes him. "_Now_? We don't even know—"

"We know enough," Agent Morrell says.

* * *

**TBC**

**AHH! Remember when I said I honestly have no idea what I'm doing? That still applies. Actually, that always applies. In most situations. It applies to my _life._ **

**...I'll stop now.  
**

**Thanks for all the follows, favorites, and reviews!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

"…She's _where_?" Stiles sputters.

The question is directed at Park Jae Soon, but she's unavailable at the moment; her eyes a milky white, her mouth slack, her face strangely expressionless, and her finger, smeared with Stiles' blood, hovering over a seemingly random spot on the paper map one of the agents had procured for them earlier.

"The forest?" Scott offers, tilting his head to get a better angle.

"Greyson Heights National Park," Laura says, pointing to the name on the map. She reads the coordinates off, and Stiles hears the sound of typing, and then one of the agents sitting at the big bank of computers in the van they're all smashed into (seriously, there are, like, twenty people in this thing, although it can handle it, because it's more of a bus than a van, really) brings google maps up on the largest screen.

Stiles chooses not to comment that they're using google maps to find their potential murderer. Mostly because google maps is damn good at what it does.

"Those coordinates have a ping," The guy – smells like a were-shark, which is _awesome_ – says, "on the DSOI database, Agent Morell."

Agent Morell is strolling up and down the aisle, seemingly undeterred by the constant rumble of the moving vehicle around them. Stiles doesn't even know how they're driving so fast. He doesn't hear any sirens. It's later at night, yeah, but that doesn't mean the roads are empty…

"And?" Agent Morell prompts.

"Unlicensed PVF Farm, ma'am," The were-shark dude answers. Sometimes, when Stiles wants to torture himself with bad acting and bad plots, he watches procedural cop dramas on his computer, which is how he knows PVF stands for Potential Volatile Flora. "Also marijuana."

"She's at a plant nursery," he says. "An evil plant nursery. Lovely. At least we can all get high before she kills us."

"In operation since 2008," Were-shark dude continues over him. Stiles wants to ask him if it's hard being a sea-based were on land. Like, what happens if he shifts _right now_? Does his house have a huge-ass saltwater swimming tank or something for when he's feeling the urge? Does he live by the ocean? What happens if he tries to swim in fresh water? Or is he a fresh water shark? "by one of the local fae mob families. Ackleson? They keep changing their name. We've never been able to trace their stuff back to any illegal activity, so—"

"Yes, yes, Johnson, I'm perfectly aware of our policies on intel retrieval." Agent Morell sighs. Stiles thinks that means that they haven't shut down the nursery yet because they have an agent planted (heh, pun) there.

"So, she's at a plant nursery in the middle of nowhere," Allison supplies. "Makes sense."

"Wolfsbane," Derek says. "Any wolfsbane?"

Stiles likes it when Derek's voice gets all low and authoritative, it makes him think how it would sound in—

"_Stiles,_" Jackson growls. Woops.

"Not my fault, dude, I can barely do the mind-barrier trick any more." Stiles shrugs, waggling his fingers around his head. It's true, though, Stiles is having difficulties. Lots of difficulties. Concentrating. Moving. _Thinking. _

Agent Morell eyes them for a bit from where she's standing behind Erica. It's a weird angle, since all of them are sitting in a circle around the map on the floor (again, the van is more like a bus, so there's actual floor space), and she's just…standing, and the shadows are making her face do a weird, and very intimidating, shadowy…_thing_.

Yee _gods_, Stiles is tired.

"I get it." Danny nods emphatically to his right, his eyes bright and crazed-looking. "I'm so _hungry_."

"Dude," Stiles says, forgetting the others for a bit, "just go over there and get Daehler to help. He's practically frothing at the mouth he wants in your pants so bad, I think we can all take one for the—"

"Danny, don't listen to Stiles," Lydia growls, which stops Danny from where he's been pushing himself off the floor. "He's not thinking clearly. You've gone longer without eating; you can handle it."

"Yeah," Danny whines. "but not when I'm getting my life sucked out of me! I'm supposed to do the sucking, Lydia, not someone else!"

"God, how do all of your conversations end up as bad innuendos?" Erica seems truly in awe. Laura and Isaac, sitting next to her, nod in agreement. Stiles laughs.

"I can barely handle when you imagine what you want to do to Daehler," Scott says. "I don't think any of us can handle actually seeing it, dude. So, how about wait… like, five hours. And if we haven't figured this out by then, we'll, like, knock ourselves out and you can go to town…"

"All of you are idiots," Derek says, and Stiles translates the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth as involuntary amusement.

Then he looks up at Agent Morell. "So, wolfsbane?"

"Yes, probably,"she says. "Lots of it. Among other things."

"Well that's just fucking fantastic," someone says.

"Maybe it will be the aphrodisiac type," Danny sounds hopeful. "and not the kill-all-werewolves-in-horrible-horrible-ways type?"

"So we can smoke a joint and have an orgy and _then_ get killed by an evil witch?" Stiles pauses, considers, then shrugs. "Yeah, fine, just don't let Jackson come near me. I get freaked out by crooked dicks."

Someone starts choking. He's pretty sure were-shark dude spits coffee all over his computer screen. Derek claps a hand over his mouth and pulls him closer, like _that_ will shut him up. Although he's probably doing the pulling because Jackson is lunging at him, screaming something about dicks that aren't crooked at all, thank you very much.

Man, for a beta Jackson is so _reactive_. Take a chill pill, dude, seriously.

"It's crooked, I swear," he says, but Derek's hand is still clamped over his mouth, so it comes out sounding like, "scmmmmgrh, swmmghhr."

"Why are we talking about…penises?" Park Jae Soon, eyes now her usual dark brown, seems confused.

"Is it penises? The plural?" Stiles wonders, pushing Derek's hand away from his mouth. "Or peni? Does anyone know?"

"This is because he's gotten more time sucked out of him than us, right?" Scott asks, a little panicky as he looks around at the others. "He's going to go back to normal after we get it back, right?"

"I'm completely normal," Stiles grouches. It's just that his head hurts, even with Derek's hand kneading the back of his neck, and his eyes don't want to stay open, and his bones – his fucking _bones_ – _ache_. Stiles just really wants all of this to be over.

"Yeah, I hear ya, dude," Scott sighs.

"So, we're going to get Lackhart at her…nursery," Allison starts. "Does anyone — Stiles not you, sorry, just no – "

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Stiles mutters. "You just want me for my body."

" – have a plan as to how we're going to do…_that_?"

"Well, considering that we've _just now._" Agent Morell gestures at Park Jae Soon and the map. "learned where Lackhart is, we'll be contacting the local police force. As for a plan…" She looks at were-shark dude. "We need more information."

"Accessing it now, Agent Morell," Were-shark dude says. Stiles likes calling him were-shark dude instead of Johnson, for some reason. Seems more interesting. Johnson is such a _boring_ last name.

"They'll be two teams, though, right?" Stiles asks a little later, after watching Laura beat Isaac at a game of thumb war. He turns to Derek.

"Two teams for what?"

"One to get the hostages, the other to get Lackhart," Morell says, which, kind of, Stiles guesses, answers his question. Maybe.

"And do we know if she's really just working alone? Or is that fae mob family connected to Wes Jensen?" Lydia asks, still holding Jackson back. "Because we'll need more people in there if that's the case. I am _not_ getting put on henchman duty, _again_."

"That was like, two times, Lydia, and all you had to do was seduce them," Stiles says.

"Also Kevlar vests would be nice," Danny says. "For wolfsbane bullets, which they'll probably have?"

Stiles sighs. "You're freaking out hipsterwolf over here, Danny. Call them…love pellets, or something."

"Hipsterwolf? Oh fuck, that is so _accurate_." Erica looks at Derek. "He doesn't dress it, but oh my god, Stiles, _yes_."

"_Right?"_ Stiles says.

"I'm not a hipster," Derek says. "And I can handle you saying bullets."

"Yeah, but your nostrils flare and you do this little sub-vocal whine thing in your throat, so actually you can't." Stiles shrugs. "Hipsterwolf."

"You're all so _strange,_" Laura says. "But I like it."

"Thank you," Stiles says. "I think."

"_Why is this happening to me_." He thinks he hears Derek mutter.

* * *

It takes an hour for them to drive the rest of the way to Greyson Heights. Time moves slowly, though, because there are no fucking _windows_ in the bus, effectively reducing their world to the size of a trailer. A trailer that smells like Cheetos and electronics and nervous sweat and instant coffee and, _ahhh_, Derek.

While the others concentrate on planning, Stiles just buries his nose in Derek's shoulder and comments as needed. It's kind of nice, actually, to not have to, you know, be the _Alpha_ alpha. But then again, also not, because the only reason he's not participating more is because his brain feels like someone stuffed it with teddy bear intestines.

They find out that, yes, Wes Jensen has connections to the local fae mob (currently going by the last name Ackleson, although that's due to change soon, because the fae are as crazy about the power of names as witches are about _balance_), and that, yes there are going to be fae henchmen there. That last bit is confirmed by satellite images that show the nursery itself, a sprawling thing with surprisingly more building than Stiles would've expected for a place that grows plants. There's like, lots of building. A ridiculous amount of building. He doesn't know why they aren't just calling it a compound, because it seems suspiciously like a compound.

That happens to grow Potential Volatile Flora. And marijuana.

He wonders if fae can get high. He knows weres do. Marijuana isn't like beer; reacts differently. The body doesn't see it as a threat, or something. Stiles is fuzzy on the details, but _the point is…_the point is that he's trying to imagine what the (probably) fae-henchmen do in their spare time. Do they garden? Get high? Both?

The satellite images also tell them that the nursery itself is at the end of a "hidden" dirt road, and that the surrounding area is chock-full of perimeter charms. Oh joy.

It's Allison that points out that werewolves run faster then humans, and that they need speed if they're going to attack with the element of surprise. Which is the statement their current plan has evolved from. A plan that Stiles thinks is pretty fricken' bad-ass, but also batshit crazy and possibly suicidal, depending on Steyna's mood, their ability to fight fae henchmen, and whether or not the hostages are going to be found easily. Or, well, if they're even there in the first place…

Stiles isn't surprised when someone – he thinks it's Scott – suggests that he wait with the agents while they run in. That doesn't mean his snarl is any less volatile, though, or that he holds back the temptation to let his canines grow and his eyes glow a red. Everyone, except for Derek of course, _flinches_.

"Try and make me," he says, and his voice is a satisfying growl. Were-shark dude's latest attempt at sipping coffee dribbles down his chin.

"You're barely making sense, Stiles," Lydia, of course, says. Stiles growls because he no time for things like common sense and _logic_. Thankfully, his dad is with his deputies in another van, and not supporting Lydia in this argument. He _definitely_ does not have the time for guilt, either. "You'll be a – "

"All of us are liabilities, Lydia. Or have you un-spelled yourself recently?" Stiles interrupts. "Steyna attacks, and that's six werewolves turned into slobbering messes on the floor. Doesn't change that I'm going in. I'm not asking to go and face down Steyna in some fucking battle for the ages, I just want this _done_, and it'll go faster the more we have involved."

"I'll be with him," Derek says.

"Of course you will be." Stiles grabs his hand. "And when the bad fae henchmen come, you can tell them that henchmen are _so_ 20th century."

"…so I'm the back-up sass." Derek is flirting. This is Derek flirting. Oh god it's cute.

"About those Kevlar vests?" Danny asks, again, looking up at where Agent Morell is watching one of the computer screens.

* * *

When Stiles jumps down from the van, he feels like he's in an action movie. One of those ones like Die-Hard, or Die-Hard with a Vengeance, where the hero is in the building and there are a bunch of police gathered outside running around looking important. Not that he's going to be channeling any Die-Hard here, just that the area where they've parked the van is crawling with cops and the FBI and the DSOI. It looks like the visitor center for Greyson Heights National Park, if the sign over at the far corner of the parking lot is to be trusted.

The thing is, there are lots of lights, and lots of voices, and it's all just very overwhelming.

Agent Morell leads them past where his dad is talking with the county's sheriff in low, manly voices, past the SWAT team readying their equipment, towards a group of two men and three women wearing DSOI jackets. Four of them are human; the woman with the dark red hair and white, almost translucent skin is banshee.

Stiles tries not to glare at her. He doesn't think he succeeds.

"Agent Morell," one of the agents says. "These are the wolves?"

"Agent Juarez." Morell nods her head. "They are."

"They sign the liability forms yet?" The banshee asks.

"Yes," Morell says, which is a lie. But Stiles isn't going to call her out on it. "we've already been over the brief you sent over. They understand they're not in charge here." Oh, another lie. Stiles _likes_ Agent Morell.

"Good, we already have a couple witches trying to find where the perimeter spells are," another agent says. Stiles is either more tired than he thought, or they all, save for the banshee, look like quadruplets. Scary, automaton quadruplets. With perfectly sculpted hair-dos and strangely symmetrical facial features. "Take your little group and get started."

Agent Morell nods, and suddenly they're all following her back to their van.

"What was that?" Derek asks next to Stiles.

"HQ can get a little too caught up in protocol and paperwork," Agent Morell says, stiffly. "They wouldn't approve of you getting to the farm first."

"But you do, which is why you lied, so we go in anyway," Lydia says.

"Yes. Steyna Lackhart is…irrational and highly unpredictable." Almost as an afterthought, she adds. "This is why it's so hard, policing the supernatural. Humans just don't _get it._"

"Huh," Isaac says. Well, so do Danny and Jackson and Scott, but Isaac's 'huh' is the loudest.

"We make up two percent of the world's population. You'd think humans would've gotten a clue as to how to deal with situations like these," she says, a little wistfully. And now the conversation is getting slightly philosophical, so Stiles is just going to fade out because his brain _cannot handle_ philosophy right now.

He _cannot_.

"What time is it?" He whispers.

"Half past eleven," Derek whispers back.

"When this is over," Stiles says. "I'm going to sleep for, like, two days. Two, Derek. I'm not even joking here."

"That's fine," Derek says, "as long as I'm invited."

Is that flirting? That sounds like flirting. Stiles grins, punches Derek's arm, because, really, _so cute, _then turns back to Agent Morell.

He tries to pay attention for a little bit, as she outlines the plan of attack - which is, basically, run in, get rid of the guards (Lydia, is, understandably, peeved about being on henchmen duty again), find the humans, try, if at all possible to _avoid_ Steyna Lackhart, then wait for the cavalry to show up – but Stiles keeps getting distracted by the patterns Derek's hand is rubbing into his back. The man could be a _masseuse_.

He's not too worried about missing the finer points of Agent Morell's presentation, though. He knows the plan is more of a _suggestion_ than an actual plan, because in these types of situations – shitty situations – the plan usually, well, usually the plan just goes to shit. Stiles is here because he has a personal interest in stopping Steyna; a very personal interest. He doesn't really care _how_ he helps that interest be realized, just that he feels better being involved, rather than sitting at home waiting for the inevitable.

Or, well, hopefully _not_ inevitable, since he's here's and all…and the DSOI is going to take care of Steyna and everything is going to be tied up with a neat little bow.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Anyway, Stiles really doesn't realize they're supposed to be moving until Derek nudges him. And then he just starts running.

* * *

Stiles has always been a fast runner. Even for a werewolf, he's fast. In high school, he could've _dominated_ on the were-track team, but life (cough cough kanima Jackson cough cough) got in the way, and Stiles didn't think it would be a good idea to juggle school work, an extracurricular activity, _and_ whatever trouble his friends got into (okay, and him, also him).

He's made of wiry supernatural muscle, he's tall, and his legs are long, so it's no surprise that he ends up being the first to reach the farm. The others are maybe a minute behind him, spread out to surround the compound, their bare feet silent against the forest floor, because werewolves are too badass to need shoes when raiding an evil witch's hideout. He can feel, maybe even more so than yesterday or earlier today, how irked they are with him. But he's too out of it to really care much.

The compound is quiet. There are no spotlights, no guards, no walls, even, but Stiles can smell the wolfsbane and the magic, and he knows that it's mere minutes before someone activates a perimeter spell, and then, he thinks, _nothing_ will be quiet. So he takes a second to get himself situated – the wolfsbane crops are to his right, at the end next to the marijuana and what smells like nightshade; the building in front of him is more of a warehouse, with two more identical, albeit slightly smaller, buildings to either side; there are lights on inside all of them, shining through a row of windows near the roof, maybe ten feet up – and then sprints towards where he smells human.

It's a faint smell, and it's not really _human_, so much as something that doesn't fit in with the fae and the wolfsbane and, yes, the very distinct smell of _witch_, so he trusts his nose, he keeps low to the ground, and he's plastered to the side of one of the warehouse in seconds.

It's the smaller one to the right, and inside he can hear voices.

It hits him that he's _doing _this, he's _here_, right now, against the side of an illegal PVF farm, eavesdropping on two _henchmen_ (fucking _henchmen)_ argue about yesterday's episode of Glee, in the process of rescuing a group of hostages. The adrenaline rush that this brings gives him a bright white moment of clarity in which he realizes that a) he's a fucking idiot for not sticking with the pack, and b) he smells _magic_. And not just any magic – the same type of magic that he smelled in Park Jae Soon's house earlier today. The warehouse has the same charms. Something is being kept _in_. The something being the hostages.

Inching a little to the right, where there's more shadow, Stiles crouches and jumps to catch hold of the roof's ledge, pulling himself up as silently as possible (pretty silently, actually, which makes Stiles give himself a mental pat on the back), then crawls over to where the light is shining through the windows.

He can't stop the snarl that rumbles through his throat when his eyes adjust.

Because, yes, the humans are in there. Five of them. Along with a couple of witches, a fae, a wind elemental, a vampire, and…and maybe a were skunk? Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure that's a were-skunk. All of them are sallow-skinned, malnourished, and terrified. They're hog-tied, gagged, blindfolded, and crowded inside a cage that is maybe ten feet by ten feet. The two henchmen are by the door, sitting at a small card table, watching a YouTube video on a phone. It sounds like some Glee mash-up.

And Stiles, well, Stiles is pissed. Because he _knows_ what it feels like to be helpless and scared for your life and so _angry _that you can barely move.

He wants to be smart about this, he really does, so he makes himself _think_. He can take the two henchmen by surprise—it's just a matter of moving fast enough— but what he's worried about is the stench of _charm_ in the air. What if it traps him inside? What if he activates an alarm? What if-

He's still thinking when there's a sudden eerie silence. No, not silence; _stillness_. The air stops moving, stops _existing_. Like it's been replaced with something…heavier. Something that stinks like magic. He sees Derek and Allison burst out of the tree line to his left; Scott and Jackson a little to the right; he can smell Danny and Lydia _somewhere_. And then the screeching starts, and it's horrid, and loud, and _close_, and Stiles realizes that thinking is _so_ fucking overrated, and kicks in the window with a growl.

"—Fu-!" One of the henchmen screeches, but Stiles is on him before he can finish, upending the card table and smashing it in his face hard enough that he's thrown to land against the wall. He's sliding to the floor (unconscious, because Stiles really wants as little death here as possible) as Stiles turns and grabs the other fae by the hair as he tries to swing his gun at him.

One kick to the balls and an uppercut later, and he's just as unconscious as the other one, and Stiles is rushing over to cage.

Already, though, he can hear a veritable army (yes, that's a hyperbole, but Stiles is in panic mode right now, and is _allowed_ hyperboles) rushing his way, boots thudding against hard-parked dirt, all chaos and angry shouts and muttered curses.

The incessant screeching coming from all around him intensifies, and he wonders, briefly, if werewolves can go deaf.

As he rips the cage door off, ignoring the layer of skin that comes away when his hand touches the apparently spelled steel, spotlights flood the outside, and someone kicks the door in.

It's Derek and Scott, half-wolfed out, already dirty and sweaty and breathing hard.

Stiles smells fear and confusion, but not from them, and turns back to the hostages. "We're here to help." He growls, which doesn't stop them from whimpering, but it does make the smell of fear a little less…pungent. He turns to Derek. "There are charms. Find them. Smell for anise."

Lydia and Allison rush in then, and they cut the ties and blindfolds with sharp claws. In the distance, maybe three miles out, Stiles hears the crunch of SWAT team boots over slightly-damp forest ground.

Everything is overwhelming.

He can't think right. He can't process what he's seeing because there's so much noise and so much chaos that he's just…doing what his body tells him to do.

He hears the henchmen getting closer. And something else. Coming from behind them. A witch. They're coming from the other warehouse - the smaller one on the other side of the compound – and someone, a woman, is screaming unfamiliar words.

Crap.

"Get them out of here," Stiles hears himself snarl, his mind running on auto-pilot, his gaze landing on Derek and Scott as they sniff out the magic. "use one of the witches to destroy the charms."

Then he's sprinting outside, past Danny slamming a human and his gun into the wall so hard it shakes, past Laura and Isaac sprinting towards something he can't see, past Erica wrestling with the spelled power breaker on the little shed by the sage crops, sparks flying from where she's pulling out bunches and bunches of wires.

His nose guides him, and he finds that he doesn't really care about stealth. He thinks, maybe, he attacks a few people. A fae, and a human, and something short that smells like gnome and packs a _mean_ right hook. He doesn't have a goal until the acrid smell of magic intensifies, and then there's a sense of vertigo, and he's on the ground, screaming. Lackhart knows they're here. She's using them for something. A spell.

Well, fuck.

Instinct pushes him off the ground, helps him incapacitate the few assheads stupid enough to get in his way, and then he's running.

Except this time, he has a goal. It's a blind goal, driven by rage and pain and just plain fucking idiocy, but it's his only option.

He's not waiting the ten minutes it's going to take for the DSOI to get their asses over here. If Steyna knows they're here, _she's_ not going to wait any longer to kill them. So he's going to stop her.

Stiles wishes this were a video game. Steyna Lackhart would be the final boss battle, and there would be health drops and weapons drops and…

But it's not, and Stiles is in _so much_ pain. He hates that he's used to it; he hates that he's allowing instinct to take over, because Stiles has never _been_ a creature of instinct. He's always the planner, the researcher, the one who's more likely to see things from the human perspective rather than the werewolf one. He hates that he can't do anything but allow his body to run, whining and screaming and growling and snarling, practically incoherent, towards the center of it all, when the part of him that is _big_ on self-preservation is screaming for him to _run the other way_. He just hates all of it.

Then again, he's never met the fuckface, but he pretty sure he hates Steyna Lackhart more than, like, everything.

He turns a corner. No, he _skids _around a corner, stopping in front of the double-wide doors that lead into the largest of the three buildings.

Somewhere between the small warehouse and here, Erica had managed to cut the power, so everything is dark. Behind him—no, not behind him, all around him, he can hear enraged snarls and gunfire, panicked voices and the thud of feet against dirt. He can smell smoke and fire (How the _hell _is something on fire already? Oh god Derek, Derek…please let Derek be all right) and wolfsbane and _magic_. The screeching is less _screechy_ here, but still horrible.

And he's still in pain, so he doesn't think, just grabs hold of one of the industrial door handles, and _pulls_. The door flies off, landing a little bit behind him, and he stalks in, eyes roving over row after row of bitter smelling trees and sweet smelling shrubs and sick smelling roots, until they land on the only source of light that stands in the very center of it all, arms spread wide, her skin glowing a luminous purple, eyes wide and crazed – Steyna.

* * *

She's sneering at him from the middle of the warehouse, her teeth a stark white against black clothes and black hair and red, red, _red_ lipstick.

"So," she says, and her voice is high-pitched and annoying as hell. "I'm assuming you're the big bad wolf that's come to kill me, right?"

"No," Stiles growls, because if they're going to engage in witty banter before this gets physical, he is _so_ going to get the last word. Or try to. "I'm the big bad _werewolf_ that's going to deliver you to the proper authorities."

"Oh" Steyna grins. Her hands twitch, a kind of half crescent kind motion with lots of swirls and loops, and suddenly he's on the floor, screaming and gnashing and _fuck_, he's shifting. "Well, by all means, then, _mutt_, get over here and arrest me."

Somewhere far off, he hears Derek howl. It's a beautiful sound, even though the howl is one full of rage and fear and desperation, and Stiles feels, rather than hears, as he howls his own response. He's crawling, pulling himself along the damp concrete floor, picking himself up and throwing plant after tree after shrub out of his way, eyes on Steyna as she flickers in and out of focus.

"I didn't expect you to catch on so quickly," Steyna muses – she fucking _muses_. Who muses when an angry werewolf is stalking towards them? Oh, right, crazy evil-ass witches. Damn it. "But you've got to realize that this was such a _stupid_ idea."

He snarls, because all of his teeth are suddenly sharp points, and if he talks, he's pretty sure he's going to bite down on his tongue, and that's _never_ pleasant.

"I mean, what kind of _idiot_ bursts in on the person who has them under a spell?" Steyna giggles, claps her hands together, and Stiles doesn't – he _doesn't_ – whimper as another wave of pain makes him stagger into a thorn bush. "I guess it was a little smart that you went for the, ah, _insurance_, first, but, really, what do you hope to get from this? Do you _want_ to die, or something?"

He's ten feet away. Ten feet, and every fucking step he takes is agony. He's so close, _so close_, that he can see the magic around her, see as she uses his life to – well, Stiles doesn't know what she's doing with it, actually.

"Even if you kill me," he says, and, holy crap, he really never thought he would ever start a sentence with that particular combination of words. "you're not going to be able to get Jensen out."

There's a pause, and then she laughs. She laughs and laughs and the sound makes him want to tear her intestines out and wrap them around her white and veiny throat.

"Who said I want to get him out?" Steyna scoffs when she stops laughing. "I hate his fucking fae _guts_. Dirty tree hugging vindictive _unnaturals_, is what they all are, _mutt_, like you. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill all of them. _All of them_." She punctuates her sentences with hand flourishes that make Stiles feel like his bones are imploding.

Witches, man. Fucking witches.

He kind of preferred the separated-lovers story. At least it was an _understandable_ crazy, and not just…_crazy_ crazy. At least it explained why Steyna is at a PVF nursery run by the fae _mob_…oh wait, maybe she put on an act? Maybe this was all pre-meditated? Maybe she went to pri—_no_, Stiles, stop thinking. Not important right now.

He kicks a watering can out of the way.

Seven feet.

Her pupils are small. So small they're barely pinpricks of black against the light, light blue of her irises. Underneath her skin, her veins are a dark purple, and they're _pulsing_. Pulsing with magic. Pulsing with _his_ life. _His_ time. She mutters something, stepping back and out of the pentagram she'd drawn on the floor with what smells like potting soil, a knife appearing in her hand.

"You only have about two months left," Steyna says, "it's kind of sad that you're still doing this. But then again, you're a dog, and who expects a _dog _to think, right?"

"Dogs are loyal, beautiful, _amazing_, creatures," Stiles snarls, ignoring the whole part where he kind of agrees with her. Because, really, why couldn't Park jae Soon have just unspelled them? Why couldn't he have just let the police do their job? He could've been home right now, where at least he would be in pain while sitting in a brightly lit house, probably snuggled against someone (Derek, preferably). He sighs, already knowing the answer. He's here because if he wasn't, Steyna could've - _would've _- gotten away, and tried this whole thing again, and Stiles and his pack have a nasty habit of having to save people, that's why. "And I'm a fucking _werewolf_."

He pounces. It hurts. He gets over it, because his teeth are clamped around Steyna's bicep, and his claws are slashing at her sides, and he smells _blood_, and hears screaming – her screaming – and a snarl, inhuman and violent, rips out of his already-shifting throat.

There's a moment, maybe, where he thinks he's winning. Where he thinks, fuck yeah, Stilinski, you _are_ awesome, and then, because nothing is ever easy, he feels the pain. And it's different. It's a different pain. It's a burning pain. An _acute _pain. A pain he's felt before. When he was fifteen and Jackson dared him to stab his hand for two hundred bucks (which he had subsequently used on WoW because _priorities)._ When those leprechauns had started poking him with their ridiculously sharp and terrifying nails back in senior year. When the banshee had tried to cut off his arm with a fucking letter opener.

It's the pain of muscles and bone and sinew getting pushed and sliced and _pulled _as something foreign imbeds itself in the skin. It hurts like a stab. And it burns like nothing he's ever felt before.

And it smells…it smells like wolfsbane.

He screams when the burning intensifies, looks down to his half-shifted torso to see a knife, gleaming with some _serious_ looking runes, stabbing into his chest and upper arms again and again and again. There's blood. There's _so much_ blood, and it's his, and it's Steyna's, and…and…and _fuck_ wolfsbane, like, _hurts_.

He throws her off him.

He throws her off him and collapses as whatever spell was in the blade takes hold of him and starts _pressing_.

For fuck's sake, he thinks, as his back arches and his claws curl into fists, as the back of his head hits the concrete floor while he jerks and spasms, can't a were-dude get a break!?

Some small part of him knows that Steyna is using him to power this spell. Which is just fucking nuts. And ingenious. He's hurting because of the time being sucked out of him, which is being sucked out of him by a spell that, essentially, feels like it's _flattening his insides_.

He's kind of impressed. For a crazy dickhead, Steyna is _resourceful_. He doesn't say anything, though, because his bones are breaking – are _cracking - _under the pressure, and his muscles feel like meat being tenderized for some fancy French meat-centric dish, and his head hurts so bad he wants to throw up. Or maybe _everything_ hurts so bad he wants to throw up.

No, he doesn't say anything.

He does scream, though.

He screams, and screams, and eons pass, and then something lunges out of the shadows. Something that smells like tea and earth and bread, and he gets that he's supposed to know who it is, knows they share some kind of connection, but he really can't remember past the pain and the fear. He knows he can trust them, though, which is…reassuring.

He hears claws ripping through muscle and bone and sinew. A sound that is halfway between a snarl and a growl. A cackle turned into a scream turned into the gargle of something trying to breath through a shredded trachea. Then there's a thud that he thinks is a body dropping to the concrete floor, but he can't be sure because he's blind.

Or maybe his eyes are closed.

Meh, details, details.

Everything stops. There's silence, and he realizes it's because he's stopped screaming. There's still pain, but not the pressing kind, not the pulling kind, just the horrible sting of stab wounds leaking blood – so much blood - and the roaring ache of bruised bone and shredded tissue. Everything still hurts, and nothing is healing, and it's probably because of the wolfs—

"_Stiles!" _Something screams, and he's so surprised that he opens his eyes (yay! Not blind!). The something scrambles over to him from where it's half collapsed next to the body of the witch (can't remember her name, fuck), coming to a stop inches away. It – he, _Derek_, _mate_ – looks down at him, eyes so fucking wide, breathing harsh and terrified, his _scent_ harsh and terrified.

Stiles whines, because he smells blood, and it's not his, nor is it the witch's. "You're hurt," he says, because the blood smells like earth and bread and tea. "She hurt you."

"Fuck, fu – " Derek – he's glad he remembers his name now, it's a nice name – tears off his shirt and presses it against one of the larger stab wounds. "You fucking _idiot_."

"Yeah, tell me about it." He tries to say it on a sigh, but that just makes him start choking. Probably on his own blood.

"No, no no no _no – _Stiles, plea- Damn it! Laura! Erica!" Derek's voice cracks. "Someone get _in _here!"

"I think they're busy," Stiles gargles, because his mouth is filling up with blood. His own blood. Which is not a good sign. The wolfsbane is stopping him from healing. And, he's guessing, from how hard it is to breath, that one of those stabs nicked his lungs.

Ugh, he is _such_ a fucking idiot.

He should've waited. He should've fucking _waited_ for someone, _anyone_, to come with him. He should've _planned _something. But no. Illogical, impulsive, _idiot_ Stiles had taken over. And here he is, lying on the floor, and his Derek is crying. His Derek. Crying. Crying because of _him. _Damn it.

If he dies, and leaves Derek alone, he's never going to forgive himself. No one should have to lose so many people. And, sure, he's not as significant as a mother and a father, but he _could've_ been _something_.

"Shut _up,_" Derek growls. "You so much as _think _of dying, I swear, Stiles, I will—" And then he's picking him up, princess style, and he's running.

There's probably a joke he could make about this situation. Something about damsels in distress and societal gender roles, but he's just so _tired_. And fuzzy. His brain. It's fuzzy. It's a new thing. Fuzzy brain.

It sucks.

Because he's in pain, and he wants to whine, and tell Derek to take it all away, to _help _him, to talk to him, tell him how stupid he is, and how this will all be over soon. He wants to call Steyna every fucking creative insult he can think of, and he wants to be able to stand and hug his pack because it's _over_. She's dead. Ding dong. The evil witch is dead. He wants to do all that. He wants to hug his _dad, _for fuck's sake. But he can't. He can't move. He can barely speak. He can barely _think_, because his brain is fuzzy.

Fuzzy with what, Stiles prefers to ignore.

He really hopes he doesn't die, because he hasn't cleared his internet browsing history in, like, a month. And his porn folder…oh man, his porn folder. He hasn't even gotten to watch the one where-

"Sti-!? _Stiles!" _This time the voice is female, and he shifts from where he's been staring at Derek's chest, to see that they're outside, the forest a dark green blurr around them as they sprint. Well, as Derek sprints and Stiles kind of…_flops_. "You _idiot_!" The voice screeches, and Stiles sees red hair and a pretty face smudged with dirt and blood, and then they're turning a corner, and she's gone.

Stiles is pretty sure her name starts with an L.

They either pass through a portal, or Stiles blacks out, because the next thing he's aware of, everything is lights and smells and cars and he's in the back of an ambulance and everyone is looking at him and dad is there and he's crying and—and—and—and oh fuck it he's too tired for this.

So he faints.

But it's a manly faint, thank you very much.

* * *

**TBC**

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	6. Chapter 6

**This story is rated M for Mature** **:)**

* * *

When Stiles wakes up, he's in a hospital. Which is a first. Well, technically, he was born in a hospital, so _that _was the first. And this is, well, yeah…this is the second. The second time he's ever been in a hospital. But this is the first time he's been in a hospital since he was _born_, and well…it stinks.

Like sick people and chemicals. But mostly it stinks like sadness and pain and desperation and _blood_.

He is so _sick_ of smelling blood. Especially his blood. Seriously. If he gets so much as a paper-cut in the next year he's going to punch someone.

Probably Scott.

_Preferably_ Scott.

Stiles is lying in a bed, but he doesn't want to open his eyes, so he can't tell what color the sheets are. He doesn't know why the color of his sheets are so important, but they just _are_, okay? He's alive, he can focus on anything he fucking wants to focus on, the color of his sheets included.

Oh wow.

He's _alive_.

That's…that's good.

Yeah, that's really good.

His heartbeat is slow and steady and strong. He doesn't need a monitor to know this, but it's there. The monitor, that is. Beeping in the background in sync with the thump thump thump in his chest. There's no one else in the room, which is good, he supposes, since he's not really in the mood for some emotional reunion. Not yet, anyway.

He's still tired. But it's a good tired. It feels _natural_. Feels like it's to be expected after two days of living on adrenaline and then almost dying. He wonders how long he's been out.

He can't feel anyone. Or, no, that's wrong. He _can_. Just not with the same intensity of the past two days. He feels them like a blanket. He knows they're alive. He knows they're well, or is it asleep? He can't tell the difference. And that's all. No pornographic imagery. No heightened knowledge of just how crazy all of them are. Nothing. It's just him.

Which means that the magic bond is gone.

Which means that maybe, _just maybe,_ Jae Soon has already reversed the effects of the time-sucking spell.

Which means that Stiles was unconscious for some really cool voodoo. Or, not, _literally_, voodoo. Because voodoo is terrifying. But magic. Which is also terrifying, but less so than voodoo.

Why is Stiles thinking about voodoo? He needs to stop.

He needs to open his eyes.

He does.

It takes a moment for them to adjust, even with all the lights off, but when they do, he sees that his sheets are white. How boring. Actually, everything is white. He guesses he should've expected that, since this is a hospital and all. But seeing it on TV and seeing it in person are different. The white is kind of…well, not overwhelming, but, well, a little much and also just really bland?

Stiles wants comfort. He wants soft, sepia-toned light and softer pillows, and a couple million blankets to wrap himself in, and maybe a nice big mug of hot tea. Or, hey, even coffee, if Derek's attached. The room that he's in isn't providing comfort. It's all stark chemical cleanliness and sharp corners.

Blegh.

He sits up, which is a long and arduous affair because his upper chest and arms seem to be made of pudding. There are no visible wounds anymore, but the areas where Stiles remembers seeing blood and the occasional chunk of muscle and sinew are tender and hot to the touch.

So, he's healed. Completely? Stiles hopes it's completely.

All he wants to do is go home, really, to the room that smells like it's his. Back to his bed where he can actually _sleep_, instead of being unconscious. And then, maybe, after sleeping for the aforementioned two days, back to school and work and _normal _things.

And Derek.

He wants to figure out this whole Derek thing.

He's not…no, he's not in love. You don't fall in love with a stranger in two days. But he wants to. He _wants _to fall in love with Derek. And he knows he will, if they keep being around each other.

And he, uh, he knows it's selfish of him, but he wants to keep being around Derek.

He wants to find out what makes him tick. He wants to find out what his favorite movie is, what he does for fun, what makes him angry. Hell, he wants to get in his fuckin' pants. Or not. Frottage is hot, too.

Stiles is anything but a sex-snob.

He knows Derek's here, because he can feel him. Just like the others. Which is terrifying and awesome. And even if he couldn't feel him, underneath the chemicals and blood, Stiles can smell him. Faintly, like he was here and then he left. Maybe thirty minutes ago.

Stiles is already pining, but that's not important.

What's important is….what's important is that he has to pee.

Slowly, he eases his legs off the bed, wincing all the way until they're are dangling off the side and his toes are skimming the cold floor. Whatever spell Steyna had stabbed him with (literally) had been brutal, especially if he's still feeling the effects _now_.

The clock on the wall says that it's 10 pm. So he's either been out at least a day, or time has gone backwards.

Considering the events of the last couple of days, he supposes the latter option isn't _that_ crazy, but he's just going to assume he's been out for a day.

He doesn't walk to the bathroom so much as shuffle like an old man, and by the time he's wrestled himself out of the backless robe someone put him in, done his business, and flushed the toilet, he's considering taking a nap on the floor.

He doesn't though, because someone might come in, and there would be panicking. Lots of panicking. And Stiles already has a headache; he doesn't think he can handle any screaming or fast movements.

Not today, at least. Maybe not tomorrow, either.

He washes his hands, and tries not to look in the mirror for fear of making himself feel even shittier. It doesn't work, though, because from the few glimpses he catches, he looks horrible. His cheeks are sunken in. His skin is yellow and pale. There are bags under his eyes the size of…well, really big bags. His hair is all, err, _weird_. Like it's been blow-dried and then left to frizz. Which is just…wrong. There's stubble everywhere, which has never really been a good look for him, since it grows in weird, uneven, patches.

Ugh, but whatever. Not the time for vanity.

He's shuffling back towards the bed when the door opens and a doctor comes in that smells like nymph.

She doesn't seem surprised that he's up. Then her eyes land on the heart monitor clamped around his finger, and he realizes someone must've told her his heart rate had changed.

Ahh, technology.

"Mr. Stilinski." She smiles, and her wide mouth is full of pearly white sharpened teeth. Definitely a nymph, then. "I'm Dr. Finstock, your maguphysiologist. How're you feeling?"

"G—Good." Stiles maneuvers over to the bed and sits down carefully. "How long have I been…where is this?"

"You were out for two days, Mr. Stilinski, but only because I needed you under an anesthetic while I patched up that nasty spell. Egyptian in origin, if you're curious. Very powerful. You're lucky to be standi—err, sitting right now." She walks over, or, well, slinks, because nymphs usually slink everywhere, and grabs his chart from the end of his bed, flipping almost randomly through the pages. "We're at Greyson Heights Memorial Hospital. Your pack was released last night with strict instructions to remain in bed for at least a day. Your father is up in the cafeteria nursing one of those _horrible_ omelets we sell for an _exorbitant_ amount of money. Your mate is with him because Henry – your nurse – threatened him with death if he didn't eat something as well. Any particularly tender areas? Can you move your arms for me?"

Stiles blinks, moves his arms in a slow circle. "I guess, I uh…ache." She nods, slinks over to him. "The wi—Park Jae Soon? The hostage—" He stops when she shines a light in his eyes. He thought that only happened in medical dramas.

"Also here. Although they aren't in my department. I think they're…two floors up? Recovering, as far as I've heard. Shock is a nasty thing. Can I take this off?" She gestures at his robe, and he shrugs, because she's already pulling it forward with quick, efficient movements.

"I've got to say, Mr. Stili—"

"You can call me Stiles," he says.

"Stiles, is that a nickname? Your file says –-" Dr. Finstock pushes at the tender spot a little to the left of his heart. He flinches, and she mutters something under her breath.

"I prefer Stiles," he says, because he does.

"Well, _Stiles._" She moves on to the one right above his clavicle. "I won an _intense_ game of rock, paper, scissors to treat you."

"Huh?"

"Not a lot of interesting stuff happens in maguphysiology – I know, I know! You're thinking, 'you specialize in healing _magically_ obtained injuries, how does _that _get boring,' right?" She moves on to the spot just below his jugular, grinning all the way.

"Kind of," Stiles says.

"Yeah, you're thinking it's all _Supernatomy_, right? Mage bombs and out of control werewolves – no offense – and a good dose of sexual tension between me and the hot doctor up in non-human gynecology?"

"I—I, uhh, I've only seen a couple episodes of that one…" Stiles has watched three episodes of _Supernatomy_, actually, and all of them were riveting. He just keeps forgetting to download all four seasons because he's too busy with school. Or, he was before, you know, all of _this_.

"Psshh, please. Yesterday all I did was reverse a curse that had my patient breaking out in hives. Not even _magical _hives, just old-fashioned nasty hives. I mean, _boring_. But this…_this_. This was some serious stuff, Mr. Stili—I mean, Stiles."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I mean, I've never had to have a witch coven _consult_. And that was _after _I got rid of that smasher spell." She's humming. His doctor his _humming_ as she pokes and prods at his tender spots.

"Smasher spell?" Stiles likes Dr. Finstock, he does, in a slightly intimidated way, but he kind of wants Derek here. Or dad. Or both? Someone? Anyone?

"Oh, right, the, uh..." she pushes her hands together in what he thinks is a demonstration of the spell. "The spell on the knife you were stabbed with? Which, by the way, _brilliant_ focus object, especially laced with _wolfsbane_, I mean, _stellar_—"

"The spell?" Stiles is kind of reminded of himself, actually, if he was more hyperactive and, well, a doctor. Also, female. And a nymph. A scarily curvy nymph with a dominatrix-straight bob and heavy eyeliner.

"Rare Egyptian curse, first discovered when Queen Nefertiti's tomb was opened. All of the original surveyors were _crushed_, " she makes the hand motion again, and Stiles feels queasy, "on the inside."

"I was being crushed."

"On the inside, yes. When you came in. " She turns and glances at the heart monitor for a moment. "Your lungs were collapsed – although that was more from the knife wound than anything else—your sternum was starting to cave in. Your pelvic bone was a _mess_. Not to mention your spine. You're lucky you're a werewolf—a human would've died from something like that."

"Yeah, lucky me…" Stiles winces. Maybe he should take the rest of the week off, instead of staying in bed for just two days. He thinks a week sounds better. He deserves a week, for fuck's sake, his _sternum _was caving in.

"Anyway—oh, I'm just going to tie this back and, okay – anyway," She slips the robe back on, still talking. "Reversed it just in time. Then I had to get all that wolfsbane out of your system – it was, like, three _minutes_ away from your heart, _adrenaline pumping_, let me tell you – and then it turns out that while all _that_ was happening, your packmates were experiencing psychosomatic symptoms of everything you were experie-"

"They felt it?" Stiles feels bad, now. Jackson is probably going to try to punch him.

"Only psychosomatically, since the origin of the injury wasn't physical so much as magical." She opens his file again, writes something down in a scrawl. "And then there was the unbinding and reversing spell, which I couldn't do—but it was _fascinating_ to watch, Mr. Stili—Stiles."

"That, uh…" Stiles tries to find the right words. "That sounds eventful." He is so glad he was unconscious for all of it.

"The thing is." She closes his file, smiles at him. "I have a bet with my mate."

"A bet…" He eyes her. "Your mate."

"The other Dr. Finstock. In Sport's Medicine. _Dull_ field, if you ask me. Anyway, I have a bet." She smiles at him, almost…proudly? Stiles is getting a headache. No, he _had_ a headache. Now it's just getting worse. "that if I submit a case study that gets accepted by a _Maguphysiology Quarterly_, he's going to take me to Rome next Christmas."

"And you want me to be the case study…" Stiles sighs.

"I would only need your permission, and no names would be used!" Finstock smiles. "I'd let you go home today, instead of, say…tomorrow."

"Are you…bribing me?" Stiles doesn't know whether to be scared or impressed. She shrugs.

"Well, I mean, your wounds are still tender. And I bet you were hobbling from the bathroom, right? Seems to me if you were left unattended, you could do some serious damage to yourse—"

"Fine, fine," Stiles groans. "Just, give me the paperwork or something."

"You will _not _regret this, Stiles!" She looks like she's stopping herself from jumping around the room. "I'll have you processed to leave by midnight, how about that? And we can fill out the paperwork then, and I'll probably nee—"

The door opens, and Derek and dad come in, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

"Dr. Finstock…" His dad looks old and tired and very very human, and Stiles kind of hates himself for making him look like that. Next to him, Derek is still, staring at Stiles, like…like…like he's _angry_.

Stiles gets it. He totally gets it. He's probably angrier than Derek. Because he's an idiot. But that doesn't mean he wants to be glared at _now_. Not when his headache is _definitely_ a migraine, and not when his body aches like it was, oh, you know, almost _smashed_.

What the fuck. Who comes up with these spells? Assholes, that's who. Assholes with _way_ too much time on their hands.

"Mr. Stilinski, was the omelet horrible?" Dr. Finstock asks.

"Torture. I bought a travel bottle of mouthwash down in the gift shop, but the taste still hasn't gone away," Dad says. "Is he…?"

Stiles huffs. "Right here, Dad."

"All good, Mr. Stilinski. I'm going to push through the release for midnight, and you'll all be home for the weekend!" Dr. Finstock is practically preening. Stiles wonders, absently, why even his doctors are nutjobs. Or, doctor. Singular. He likes her, he does. He just hopes he never sees her again.

Her words take a moment to sink in, but when they do, he glares at the floor. It's Friday. And tomorrow's Saturday. Stiles is _definitely_ taking next week off. Work can wait; school can wait; his bed, however, cannot.

"Henry will be in shortly to get the discharge paperwork started, and, Stiles, I'll be here before you leave, all right?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, watching her turn and slink past dad and Derek, "great."

The door closes behind her with an audible _click_, and Stiles gulps. Mentally. He gulps mentally because gulping physically would just make his migraine worse. Actually, gulping mentally makes his migraine worse too. So that sucks.

"Stiles." Dad hugs him hard – hard enough that he has to stop a gasp of pain when strong arms press down over a still-tender rib cage — and cuffs him on the back of the head (which does _wonders_ for his migraine…_not_). "If you ever do something like that again, I swear – "

"Believe me, dad," he interrupts, because maybe if he berates himself this will be over quick, and he can have blessed silence, "however stupid you think I am, I think I'm, like, ten million times stupider."

"You could've _died_, Stiles," Dad says, and, oh come on, teary eyes? Why? Not the teary eyes. Please. Not now. _Ugh_. "I couldn't hand—"

"Well, I'm not dead. I'm here, I'm…relatively good as n-new." His voice does not crack. Okay, it does. But maybe it will be useful. "Just, dad, could we…could we not, today? Not right now? I just—I just want to go home, and sleep in my bed."

His dad stares at him for a bit, then he nods, a quick, jerky movement, and takes a step back, arms still on his shoulders. "You did good, son. You did stupid, but you did good. And what you did for those people…you saved their lives."

"Thanks, dad," Stiles says. Someone must be cutting onions, because his eyes are watering. Stupid fuckin' onions. "But Derek was the one that…did that. I just got myself hurt."

"Stop making this difficult, Stiles." Dad laughs, shaking his head. "I've got a change of clothes for you down in the car. Derek, can I—?"

Stiles blinks when Derek jolts, then digs into his pocket for a set of keys, handing them off to dad with a smile. It's strange, seeing the two of them like this, as a team, and nice, actually. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying.

"His uncle," Dad explains when he sees Stiles' expression, "thought it would be more comfortable for you in a larger car. He brought us his SUV yesterday for when you…woke up."

"Oh," Stiles has yet to meet Peter Hale. Or Boyd, for that matter. Well, he's met Boyd, but that was back in high school, and circumstances were…different. The thought of family meetings, though, kind of exhausts him, so he stops himself before he can start planning. "Thank you."

He doesn't want to plan for a while, since lately his plans have been shit.

Not to mention that seeing Derek now is kind of…awkward. Without the buffer of adrenaline and certain impending doom they're just two dudes who like how the other one smells. Well, there's more to it than that, but still…it's just _weird_.

"Yeah," Derek says, looking down at the floor. Or no, _glaring_ down at the floor. Stiles winces, avoiding his dad's eyes as they go between them, then pointedly ignoring the huff of breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

"I'll be ten minutes," he says, and then he's gone, and they're alone.

Fuck.

He wishes he could do something. Something other than sit here, feet dangling off the side of his bed, looking helpless and horrible, with nothing to distract him from the big, angry, frustrated, delightfully scruffy elephant in the room.

He can't get dressed, because he doesn't have clothes. He can't eat (oh, and that reminds him, he's _hungry_), because there's no food, and he probably wouldn't be able to keep it down if there was. He can't run away, because a) he can barely hobble and b) even if he _could_ hobble, the thin robe he's wearing doesn't have a back, and he doesn't feel like giving anyone an uncensored view of his ass right now.

He settles for having a thumb war with himself.

"You were hurt," he says, and damn his mouth, working against him. "Are you…better?"

"I'm fine," Derek says, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed. "You?"

"Fine," he says. It's a lie.

"Liar." Derek is suddenly standing in front of him, and Stiles thinks, for a moment, that he's going to do something crazy like throw him out the window (even though there isn't one in his room, but Derek would find a way), but then he just sinks down into the chair by his bed, and runs his hands through his hair.

Stiles looks at him. At the bags under his eyes and the pale skin under a couple days' worth of stubble. He catches the way his fingers tremble slightly as they catch on tangled and unkempt hair. He sees how his clothes are wrinkled, like he's been sleeping – poorly – in uncomfortable positions. He smells exhaustion and pain and fear. And suddenly, it's not all that weird anymore. Suddenly he's sad, and angry, and tired, and all he wants to do is make Derek happy again. Or, well, not happy. Content?

Huh, has he ever even seen Derek happy? Like, care-free and smiling? He doesn't think so. He's been amused, sure, and affectionate, and caring, but happy? Stiles doesn't know.

Well, that's just fucking depressing.

"I want to see you happy," he says, and again with the fucking mouth. Seriously, someone knock him out here, please.

"We're not talking about me, Sti—"

"We met two – no, I guess it's four, although I've been down for the last two – days ago, and we've never really gotten the chance to see each other as, well, normal weres. Everything has been adrenaline and fear and anxiety and…" His right thumb wins over his left, and he starts another round. "…and I read this study where it says that you're more likely to think you're aroused, or, well, think you're attracted to someone, when you're afraid. When you're anxious…"

"Stiles –"

"And I want to figure out if this mate thing is real, because, I _think_ it's real, Derek, but everything has been so screwed up the last week that, I don't know, it just doesn't seem—"

"I _felt_ it, Stiles." Derek interrupts through clenched teeth, and Stiles shuts up. "I _felt _what that…that _thing_ did to you. I felt your lungs collapse, and your ribs, and your fucking bones. I _felt _every stab. And when they had to fucking _cut away_ at bits of your chest where the wolfsbane had gone too deep? I _felt_ that too, Stiles. So, tell me, how does your _study_ explain that?"

Stiles stares at him, because fuck, that sounds horrible.

"It doesn't," Derek answers for him. "It doesn't explain anything." He makes a frustrated noise, rubs his temples. "I mean, is it so _bad_, being mated to me, Stiles? Is that it? Do you not want this, or—"

"I want you happy," Stiles interrupts, and, oh god, they're _really_ getting into it now. He's never been good at this. Never been good at being all…_emotive._ He talks, of course; he's open. But everyone has dark parts they like to keep hidden, and Stiles is no exception. "and I don't think I could ever forgive myself if I put-." That expression on your face again. That expression being the one two nights ago, when Derek had looked…broken. "if I keep putting you in danger."

"So, what, you're trying to protect me," Derek snarls.

"I'm giving _you_ a way out." Stiles cringes, moves on to picking at his nails. They need a trim.

"I don't _want_ a –" Derek stops himself when his voice gets too loud, continues in a harsh whisper, like the words are being pulled out of him. "I don't_ want_ a fucking way _out_, Stiles. I just…I just want you safe. And I want…you. I want you."

Stiles is pretty sure Derek knows his heart is beating fast and nervous. He doesn't even have to listen – it's painfully obvious on the heart monitor how fast it's going.

"I swear," he says, and his voice is hoarse. Not because he wants to cry, _no_, that's _definitely_ not it, he just…has something stuck in his throat. "I swear this isn't how things usually go, Derek. And stuff like this doesn't happen as much as you think. And when it does, it's just – "

"—just part of being more-than-human." Derek rubs his hands over his face. "I know, Stiles. You don't think I've had to deal with a couple mishaps? I mean, I attacked your – I attacked _Danny_ in my own coffee shop because he smelled like you. I – I get what you're doing, but it's not helping."

He doesn't know how Derek gets what he's doing, because _he_ doesn't get what he's doing. He wants Derek; he doesn't want him. He wants to tie him up and never let him go; he wants to run far far away so Derek never has to deal with something like this. He's giving himself emotional whiplash.

"He forgave me, by the way, for doing that," Derek continues, and Stiles looks up. "I said sorry."

"That's…good." He smiles.

"…I'm not a delicate flower."

"You've mentioned." Stiles nods his agreement.

"I'm not going to compare you to my parents. I'm not asking that you don't help your friends when they screw up –" Derek narrows his eyes. "I don't think you're an emotional wreck, even though you are—"

"Hey!"

"Try and tell me you weren't seconds away from having a panic attack every time someone said the word 'witch.'"

"Okay, but—"

"But my parents died later than your mother did? So I'm the one who's liable to fly off the handle whenever someone I lo—I care about is in danger?"

"No." Stiles feels like he's being scolded or something. He doesn't even have the energy to be nervous about Derek's almost mention of the l-word (and no, not lesbian). "But you were crying."

"I _was not_ crying." Derek glares at him. They both know it's a lie. "My eyes were watering."

"But you were kind of awesome." Stiles squints, suddenly remembering the blood. "She hurt you."

"_It_ hurt you more," Derek growls. He looks up at him for a bit, considering something, then Derek's arms are around his chest, and his hands are running up and down his bare back, and Stiles just kind of sinks into it. Derek shudders—or Stiles shudders, he's not sure which of them shudder, maybe both – and it feels _good_. It's the first thing that's felt _good _since he woke up. And even though they've hugged and touched plenty of times by now, this time, it feels even better. Like everything will be okay. Like they could stay here for hours on end, breathing each other in. Like they have all the time in the world. "I'm fine. I'll be finer when we're out of here."

"I'm probably going to sleep for a week after this," Stiles says after a moment.

"You've said." Derek buries his face in the crook of his shoulder, takes a deep inhale, and something that sounds like satisfaction rumbles through his chest.

"You're invited."

"Of course I am."

"…We should really have sex eventually."

"Eventually." Derek mouths at his neck, his breath hot against Stiles' skin.

"Like within the week."

"Weekend. And you have to try my coffee."

"…deal."

* * *

"So, Steyna's dead," Stiles says. It's three hours later and they're all (all of them being Stiles, his dad, and Derek) in Peter's big, black, horrible-for-the-environment-but-amazingly-comfortable SUV. Dad's driving, and Stiles is lying down in the back, his head pillowed in Derek's lap, his eyes closed as Derek runs his hands through his hair.

Peter's jeep probably isn't that comfortable, actually, it's just that Stiles can only concentrate, really, on the way Derek's hands feel in his hair, and _that's_ comfortable. Or, well, as comfortable as someone you really want to bone carding their fingers through your hair can be, which is…well, since it's Derek, yeah, it's comfortable.

That doesn't mean, though, that Stiles isn't glad his dad is decidedly human, with a decidedly human sense of smell, because Stiles keeps imagining what it's going to feel like when Derek's hands are in his hair, pulling, kneading, _pushing_—

"_Will you stop,_" Derek whispers, even though _Derek _was the one who started to smell like arousal first.

"She's dead," The sheriff says.

"And she wasn't in love with Wes Jensen." Stiles grins up at Derek, moves his arms, which have been resting on his chest since they left the hospital an hour ago, to wrap around his torso.

"No, she was planning on taking the entire Ackleson family down after she killed Jensen and about fifty other inmates." Dad doesn't seem too enthused about sharing case details, but then again, he's _never _been enthused about sharing case details with Stiles. "Had been planning it before she was arrested, took the seven years in prison to, I don't know, add to her hit list."

"So the farm?" Stiles leans into the touch as Derek's hand moves to rub at the back of his neck.

"Two of the buildings burnt down – an electrical fire." Stiles assumes Erica was behind that. "And all the crops were either destroyed or seized."

"And Dr. Finstock said…everything's normal again? The bond? And the time?"

"Jae Soon did it yesterday afternoon." This time it's Derek that answers. "We had to wait 'till your injuries healed and Dr. Finstock cleared you."

"That's awesome." Stiles sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them when he remembers another question. "How are the others? And, um, Jae Soon?"

"Jae Soon is staying with her parents at the hospital. She's fine. She has everyone's number if she needs us," Derek says, and his hand comes around to soothe Stiles forehead. "The other witches are good, too – they came and visited while you were out. Someone made us mochi – "

"_So much_ better than those goddamned omelets, I swear, Derek, I don't know what was in them, but –" Dad turns a corner sharply, muttering to himself about too much pepper and too little salt, and Stiles laughs.

"They want us to celebrate autumn equinox with them," Derek continues. "I didn't say whether we would or not…"

"Sounds good," Stiles says. For a witch, Park Jae Soon is...surprisingly nice. Maybe it's because he got to know her under duress, but Stiles is pretty sure he _likes_ her. Plus, he's kind of curious about the others. It's a little weird, saving someone from magical servitude and then never meeting them. Well, not that he _saved _them. But they were in this whole clusterfuck together, and it would be nice to, maybe, bond over it, or something? "that's, what, in a couple months, right?"

"Yeah, September." Derek looks down at him with a smile, traces his eyebrows. Stiles loves that Derek is a toucher. He really loves it. "It used to be a big thing with my parents."

"Oh," Stiles knows he's going to fall asleep soon. "are you fine spending it with u—"

"Boyd will be back by then, and we can all go, maybe, Sheriff Stilinski?"

"Don't call me Sheriff, Derek, we're family. It's kind of inevitable, right?" Dad says, and Stiles doesn't groan, even though he wants to. "And that sounds great. I'm usually swamped on the equinox, but I'll get one of the guys to switch Halloween with me."

"Sounds good, dad," Stiles murmurs. He doesn't fall asleep, so much as fall into a kind of daze where it _feels_ like he's sleeping, but every time his dad comes to a stoplight, he lurches up, only to be pushed back down by Derek and _petted_ until he's under again.

It only takes another forty-five minutes to get to the Stilinski residence, since the roads are mostly empty at two in the morning, and then Stiles is climbing out, growling when Derek moves to pick him up, because he's all for the touching, but there's a limit to the amount of coddling he can take before he wants to bite someone's head off, and then he's shuffling towards the front door.

He already feels better than he did three hours ago. His body is tired – not achy, not hobbled by tender joints and overstretched ligaments— not fragile, like it was, but tired. It's just exhaustion that is making him shuffle; it's exhaustion that's letting Derek loop an arm around his waist; it's exhaustion that makes the lazy grin form when the front door opens and everyone pours out to greet him.

They don't pounce on him though, which is nice, because, sure, he's not _as _tender as he was, but he's still pretty fuckin' tender. And, as much as he wants to hug it out with everyone, he knows they'll still be here when he wakes up tomorrow (hopefully in the afternoon, because sleep is amazing, and he wants lots of it before having to deal with _anything_ else).

He lets their smells and words and general feelings of happiness and relief wash over him, smiling until dad has banished them all back to the living room, where they've constructed a veritable blanket fort (which, _unfair_, Stiles wants in), and Derek has herded him upstairs to the bathroom, making him lean up against the wall while he locks the door.

"I'm too tired for this," Stiles sighs as Derek pulls the shirt he'd changed into back at the hospital over his head. "but I _guess_ I could give you a hand jo—"

"You smell like hospital. You don't want to get into your bed smelling like hospital." Derek smirks, though, and his hands, when he pushes the pair of sweats down Stiles thighs, are needlessly _touchy_. "Allison said she washed your sheets and everything."

"You smell like hospital too." For being naked in front of Derek, Stiles' voice is surprisingly normal.

Oh crap, he's naked.

In front of Derek.

Naked, in front of Derek. And Derek is looking at him like…like…well, shit, Stiles doesn't know whether Derek wants to eat him or fuck him or spoon him into a puddle of fluffy cuddle-goo.

Then Derek pulls his own shirt over his head, and Stiles just kind of…whimpers.

"No fair," he says. Sure, he's seen Derek shirtless, but he was a little too busy trying _not _to get aroused to notice anything other than a six pack and tantalizing hip bones and a happy trail that promised naught naughty – okay, maybe he _had_ noticed a lot. But now…now it's _his_, and it's close, and he's too fuckin_g_ exhausted to take advantage of it. Totally not fair. Not fair at all.

"Definitely not fair," Derek agrees, turning the hot water on. He herds Stiles into the tub and under the spray, and Stiles kind of forgets everything for a moment because it feels _amazing_. He hears Derek unzipping his jeans, and then there's a warm body behind him, and there are soft hands lathering shampoo into his hair, and he's leaning back and wondering how big of a faux pas it would be to fall asleep right here.

The touches get harder, more rhythmic, then his hair is completely forgotten as Derek runs his hands up and down his flanks and presses him back against his chest and, oh—yes, Derek is definitely happy to see him. Either that or he brought a rather thick flashlight into the shower with him, and decided it would be a good idea to strap it to hi-no, it's Derek's dick. Definitely his dick. And, _fuck_, it's hot and hard and pressed against his hip, and he doesn't give a _damn _if he's exhausted, he _wants_ it.

"_Fuck._" Stiles hears, and he's pretty sure it comes out of his mouth. "_Dere_—"

"It's fine, just –" Derek's voice sounds hard and a little pissed. "Just ignore it."

"Fuck _that,_" Stiles growls, and turns, lowering his head until it's against Derek's collar-bone. He looks down, sees Derek's cock, half-erect, thick and red and _hot_, and his hands come up to skim Derek's sides, slick with water and half-washed off soap. "You're evil," he murmurs, moves until his lips are pressing hot, wet, lazy kisses down Derek's neck. One of them shudders. Or both of them shudder.

"Everyone will-" Derek says, but his voice cracks when Stiles nips at the junction between his neck and shoulder. Fuck, he smells good.

"— don't care," Stiles mutters, and he traces a finger over Derek's hipbone, his other hand drifting up the smooth skin of his stomach, chest, shoulders.

"Obviously," Derek says.

"Come on," Stiles says, his voice hitching when Derek's fingers dig into his hips, like he's trying to stop himself from doing anything more. He _should_ be the one being difficult here, not _Derek_. "I want to smell like you and soap and – _fuck_."

He breaks off in a moan when Derek pulls him until they're chest to chest, dicks trapped between them, and his hands scrabble until they're fisted in Derek's hair.

And then Derek gets his hand around both of their cocks, and Stiles fucking _mewls. _

"If I – _ha_ – haven't – _unnnh – _said it before -" Stiles says a little bit after Derek's hand starts a smooth, slick, rhythm, grasp firm and tight and _exactly _what Stiles likes. His cock goes from half-hard to _holy-shit-make-me-come-now_ hard in what seems like a matter of seconds, but is probably longer, and his hips start hitching upwards with each sweep of Derek's hand. His hands flutter, helplessly, for a moment, before he wraps them around Derek's chest and digs his fingernails into the smooth skin of his shoulders. Everything is made up of low growls and snarls and whimpers, the slap of wet skin against wet skin, hot huffs of air against his face as their foreheads knock together with each thrust, the smell of arousal and come and _them_ in the steamy air.

"_What,_" Derek growls, and Stiles has to think to remember what he was going to say. They're both leaking pre-come, and Derek sweeps it up and rubs it over both of them, and Stiles moves his hands to grab a handful of Derek's ass, and he really couldn't care less about speaking right now. "You were saying som – _shit_."

"_Fuck," _Stiles snarls, which is actually what he was going to say, but not really in the same context, because he's coming now, his mouth hot and open and latched onto Derek's collarbone, his fingernails scratching down Derek's back, his teeth sharp and elongated, and it's only maybe five more strokes before Derek shudders, and _oh god_, Stiles could come again just from the _smell_.

He acknowledges, in the little part of his brain that isn't sex-addled, that that's kinky as shit, but really couldn't care less, because Derek is coming, and he's still in that hazy-post orgasm phase where everything is made up of rubber limbs and goofy, self-satisfied smiles. Their stomachs and cocks are covered with come – their come – and it makes it all the more _hotter _that Stiles doesn't know whose it is.

Derek's chest is heaving, and his teeth are worrying at the patch of skin behind Stiles ear, his stubble rasping against Stiles' neck with each movement, and, if Stiles wasn't contemplating collapsing right here and taking a nap, he'd suggest they turn this into shower sex.

Which, now that he has some visuals to use in his imagination, is going to be _hot _when it eventually happens. Bed-sex will be hot too. As will wall-sex. And car-sex. Oh, oh, oh – floor-sex. Stiles doesn't even care whether he's being fucked or fucking – okay, he does. He wants both. He wants to get fucked into his mattress and fuck Derek in his jeep and he wants to be pinned against the wall and he wants to bend Derek over a table and –

"_God_, the way you _smell_, Stiles," Derek rumbles, and Stiles comes back to reality to feel Derek's hand sliding up his stomach, spreading come and soap and sweat together in lazy spirals. "I could just –"

"Come?" Stiles grins. "Already did that."

"Your idea." Derek pulls him closer, maneuvers them both under the spray, and grabs Stiles' body wash, squeezing it onto his chest and rubbing it in with those same maddening spirals.

"Fucking _great_ idea." Stiles lets his head fall down, rest on Derek's shoulder, and grins into the side of his neck. "Not a bad way to start the weekend, either."

"Yeah, well – you - " Derek starts, then chuffs a laugh and rests his head on Stiles collar bone. "I can't even think I'm so fucking tired."

"Ugh," Stiles agrees, and lets Derek turn him so he's resting against the tiles, watching Derek wash the soap off himself and wishing he wasn't so tired.

When he's done, and they both smell like home and pack and each other, Stiles gets in a t-shirt and flannel PJ bottoms that he's sure – _sure_ – are Derek's, and watches, with some regret, as Derek pulls a pair of grey sweats on.

He's herded into his room – oh man, his room, he loves his room – and deposited on his bed, where he rolls until he's under about ten different blankets (the AC's on full blast, set at a ridiculously low temperature, because Lydia knows how much he loves getting warm in a cold room), cocooned and ready to get his hard-core sleeping on.

He's not surprised when Derek crawls in after him. Hell, he's not even nervous. He probably should be? Well, maybe if he hadn't already slept with Derek in his bed, even if it was under less-than-enjoyable circumstances. Or maybe if they had met under different conditions. Or maybe if they hadn't just enjoyed a mutual hand-job in the shower. Yeah, maybe then he wouldn't be nervous.

But right now? Right now he's not, so he rolls over until his head is half-resting on Derek's chest, half smashed into his pillow, until their legs are tangled together and Stiles isn't sure where he ends and Derek begins, until they're so wrapped up in each other and blankets that it would take some serious hand-eye coordination to even consider getting up.

He's pretty sure Derek says something, or laughs, or snorts, or yawns, because his chest vibrates, but Stiles is too busy falling asleep to pay attention.

And then he's asleep, and everything is fucking awesome.

* * *

**TBC**

**1) Magu means Magic in Latin…so…yup. A doctor who studies and treats the physiological effects of magic.**

**2) Doesn't _Supernatomy _sound like the coolest show? Think _Grey's Anatomy_ mixed with _Supernatural_ mixed with _Scrubs_. OMG IT WOULD MAKE BILLIONS.**

**3)The study that Stiles mentions is a real study – google misattribution of arousal.**

**As always, thank you so much for the follows, favorites, and reviews!  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter brought to you by Derek Hale feels.**

* * *

Derek wakes up at two in the afternoon.

The last time he woke up in the afternoon was five years ago, after his undergrad graduation party, when Laura, Boyd, Isaac, and Erica flew to New York and kept him up until three in the morning drinking were-vodka and eating Indian take-out. Even then, he'd woken up at noon. He's not exactly surprised, though. More…impressed. With himself. And his bed-mate. Or, well, mate-mate.

He looks down at the head using his arm, along with a couple of the thousand blankets someone had thrown over the bed last night, as a pillow, and grins.

If he wasn't so amazed, and surprised, and, okay, yeah, a little terrified, still, even after four (five?) days of knowing he actually had a mate – and, yes, Derek is very much aware of how horrible it is that he didn't think he had one - he would probably make Stiles wake up so he can see how his eyes turn honey gold in the sun, and –

And he's about to start spouting off long and intricate metaphors involving honey and chocolate and burnt gold now, so he should stop. Stop now while he's ahead.

Hell, even without his eyes open, and the rest of his face smothered in blankets and pillows and smashed into his arm, it's kind of difficult not getting sappy about how good it feels to have something – someone – that's his. Yes, he's aware that sounds…slightly creepy, seeing as how they became aware of each other's existence five days ago, but it's more about the potential than anything else. Stiles has the potential to become his, and that's probably why Derek doesn't wake him up. He doesn't want to start thinking about how this is new; about how they don't know each other; about how he wants so much more than is probably socially acceptable to take at the moment. He just wants to lie here, soaking it all in. Soaking them all in.

In the metaphorical sense, of course.

He's pretty sure last night, in the shower, it was in the literal sense – and, fuck, he still can't get over how Stiles' breath felt as he gasped against Derek's neck, how the snarls and growls he had made vibrated through both of them, how, when he came, the feel of his teeth on Derek's skin had sent him ove—

"Too early!" He jerks at the voice, muffled by blankets, and looks down to see Stiles shifting. "Stop smelling so aroused."

"Can't help it," Derek mutters, and he's not embarrassed. He's not. "And it's two in the afternoon."

There's a pause where Derek swears he hears Stiles ponder that revelation.

"…Still too early," he finally says.

Derek is surprised, actually, that no one has bothered them yet. They're downstairs, he knows, because Laura, Isaac, and Erica are down there, so the others have to be as well. They're strangely quiet, though.

Maybe they're still asleep?

"I could eat, though," Stiles mutters. Then, a little later. "I got drool on your arm. Sorry."

"Meh," Derek says, because he's more focused on being disappointed that Stiles is pushing himself to a sit, on the loss of body heat against his, on the loss of—

For fuck's sake, Derek doesn't remember being this fucking needy. This fucking romantic.

The last time he even remembers describing someone's eyes with a metaphor was…was…oh crap, in high school. Junior year. When a certain freshman had walked into his AP History class and smelled like—

"I bet we have peanut butter." He watches as Stiles gets up. He's not hobbling any more, but he's holding his chest really straight and really still, so it must be tender. The bags under his eyes are gone, and his face isn't as gaunt, which is good. Really good. "And jelly. Oh man, a PB & J. You want one?"

"Yeah," Derek says, because it's been years since he's had one. And maybe Stiles will make it for him…

"I'm not letting you eat in my bed," Stiles says, pausing mid-stretch to look down at him, eyebrows raised, one side of his mouth hitched up in a smirk. Derek growls, because, sure, he's hungry, but he would rather just stay in bed and blink every couple of minutes, maybe see how many times he can get Stiles to smile like that again. He's tired, and walking down the stairs seems…daunting.

Watching someone in a medically induced coma is fucking exhausting.

Of course, he's never going to say that to Stiles, because then Stiles would get that doe-eyed look and his eyes would water up and he'd probably say something stupid like he doesn't want to hurt him anymore.

Fuck that, Derek thinks. Hurting is good. It means you're alive. It means you care about something.

So, he pushes himself up, or, rather, rolls around until the blankets that he's gotten tangled up in during the night (morning?) aren't holding him down, and then pushes himself up. He waits a bit, bracing himself, before he actually stands.

"You think we should turn the AC down?" Stiles asks, and Derek lets his face go blank. No, he doesn't, because that means they won't be coming back to bed. Weren't they going to sleep for a week straight? Derek was – and is still - behind that idea two hundred percent.

"That's your No face, right?" Stiles grins, hits him on the shoulder, then walks to his door. "I agree, dude—"

"Don't call me dude."

"Sweetie pie? Honey love? Cuddle bear? Snuggle bunny? Snooku-?"

"…I know your real name, I wouldn't go there." Derek hadn't known Stiles wasn't his real name until a day ago, when he'd been sitting there in that drab hospital room, watching him breathe after Park Jae Soon had left, the sheriff sleeping in the chair next to him, and, on a whim, had grabbed his chart and read it. Or attempted to. He really thinks doctors should focus more on their handwriting. Or use tablets. Because half of what he read had just looked like differently sized loops.

Derek likes his name. It's pretty. It's unique. But he likes Stiles better. Fits him more. He doesn't know if there's a story behind why Stiles calls himself that, but he figures he'll find out eventually.

"Damn." Stiles opens the door, grins at him. "You wanna watch a movie after? I've got Netflix."

"Sounds good." Derek stands up, and it's less traumatic than he'd been expecting. Maybe it's because he's walking towards Stiles, and not away from hi—

Oh, come on, Derek, stop.

They make it to the kitchen, tiptoeing past the living room, where Isaac is snoring and Erica is kicking Allison in her sleep, before Stiles turns around and looks at him.

Derek smiles, because they're standing, for no apparent reason, in the hallway, when the kitchen – with a table and chairs to sit in – is ten feet away. Maybe Stiles is re-thinking the food idea? Maybe they can go back to bed? Maybe –

Then Stiles kisses him, and, oh, yeah, okay, that's good.

"Morning," Stiles says, five minutes later, and Derek realizes they've left the hallway, and he has Stiles against the fridge, his hands moving up and down Stiles' sides, his lips rubbing against his cheek.

"Morning," Derek says, dipping his head to take a deep inhale at Stiles' neck. "I like not having to worry about magic pack bonds."

Wow, real smooth Derek.

"It really is the best, isn't it?" Stiles rubs at the back of his neck, and he has no idea how Stiles knows he loves that, but he's not complaining. "Food?"

"Oh, right." Derek kisses Stiles one more time, just because he likes how their mouths fit together, then backs off. He leans against the table, watching Stiles, idly wondering if coffee would ruin his napping plans.

"I'll try your coffee," Stiles says, and Derek hopes he didn't say anything out loud. He prides his brain-to-mouth filter on being iron clad. At least, more iron-clad than Stiles'. "If you tell me about your crush on me in high school."

Fuck, he needs an espresso. No, a beer. Also, a car and a cliff.

He hears a faint giggle from the living room, and dares anyone – anyone – to get up. He's not above using violence. Okay, on Stiles he is, because he actually suspects that Stiles could hold his own against him, and maybe, on a bad day, kind of kick his ass, but definitely not anyone else.

"I don't have…" Derek looks at the coffee maker, groans when he sees one of the blends from Peter's house leaning – innocently – against it. "fine. Are you making me one of—" He waves his hand toward the peanut butter jar Stiles is holding.

"No, I thought I would just eat alone. I know hipsters don't like to eat without their cameras." Stiles gives him a look. Derek thinks it's adorable the way his mouth is able to make so many shapes, but growls anyway, because he's pretty sure it's expected of him.

"If I'm a hipster, then you're a geek." Ugh, he's so bad at this.

Just for the record, Derek is not a hipster. Sure, he lived in a loft in New York, he worked at a coffee shop in SoHo, but, really, the loft was – is – Peter's, and so is the coffee shop, technically. He has a business degree, for fuck's sake. Hipsters don't get business degrees. They major in fashion or art or art history or maybe basket weaving or something. Hipsters don't slog through four years of undergrad and two years of grad school just to make themselves feel normal.

Derek didn't go to New York just to go to New York. He ran to New York. He ran because he couldn't breathe here, couldn't breathe in the same town his parents had died in, couldn't breathe when Laura and Peter seemed so put together about it all and he was still a mess. A silent mess, less raw than before, but still a mess. So he ran, and he used college, and then the coffee shop, as an excuse to not come back.

And it was only a year ago that he realized he was starting to hate the east coast. No, not starting. That he already hated it. Hated it since he got there. Hated it because it wasn't his. It wasn't home. It had taken him nine months to get everything in order, twenty four hours in airports and airplanes to get across the country, and now he's here, living with Peter and Laura because what's the point of looking for your own place when all you need is a bed and a door (actually, he's re-thinking that last bit), finally kind of content.

Not that he's going to tell Stiles any of this. Not yet.

"I'm fine with being a geek, actually," Stiles says, later, while Derek is watching the coffee percolate. "Geeks are in."

"Didn't you say that when I called you a nerd?"

"Nerds are in, too."

"And hipsters aren't?"

"…touché." Stiles grins over his shoulder, start spreading peanut butter on his bread. "How do you like yours cut?"

"Triangles." Derek says, automatically, because it's the way mom used to make them.

"Good answer." Stiles turns back, and pretty soon, the sandwiches are made, the coffee is in two of the Disney character mugs (Pluto for him, Donald Duck for Stiles) Derek found on the top shelf of one of the cabinets, and they're sitting next to each other because it feels like sitting across from each other would leave too much space between them.

At least, that's why Derek arranged them like that.

"I made it light," he says, gesturing towards the coffee that Stiles is looking at like it's going to bite him. The coffee adds to the coffee-wood-sugar smell that is Stiles, making it thicker, heavier, more there. It's intoxicating. "so you don't wake up in New Mexico."

"I was drunk, all right?" Stiles squints his eyes at it, and Derek takes a bite of his sandwich, watching the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip. "And it was espresso. A lot. Of espresso."

"These are good." Derek doesn't think it's just because the last thing he ate was a bite of the sheriff's hospital omelet. Maybe it's because they taste, faintly, of Stiles…

"Hey, this is good." Stiles gestures towards the coffee after taking a sip, eyes wide and surprised. Derek is, unabashedly, happy. He doesn't even try to stop the smile as it spreads across his face. He's allowed to be happy. Stiles likes his coffee.

"So," Stiles says, after a couple more sips of his coffee. "I walked in to AP history and you smelled in love with me."

"That's a horrible pun. It doesn't even make se—"

"It does. Stop deflecting."

"Fine," Derek growls, stuffs his mouth full of peanut better and jelly and bread to give himself time to think. He could go the brusque way, and refuse to tell Stiles about it. He could distract him with witty banter…but Derek is horrible at witty banter, so that's off the table. He could…oh, fuck it. "You walked in to AP history, and I smelled in love with you."

"That…that's it. No, like, pining? Love poems? Angst? Thinking about me late at night? Dreaming about me late at night?"

"You're an ass."

"Hey, no one's ever had a crush on me." Stiles laughs. Derek likes how many different types of laughs Stiles has. There's the one where he throws his head back and his whole body kind of shakes. The one where it's more of a snort. The one where he tries to hide his laughter behind a hand or an arm. And then there's this one, where it's soft, more like a chuckle. "Or, well, you have, but, I just…" He smiles, and Derek's chest lurches. "It's nice, to know someone noticed me as something other than the high school freak magnet."

"You weren't a freak magnet in freshmen year."

"Yeah, well, the calm before the fuckin' storm, buddy," Stiles snorts.

"You smelled like home. Like…how my home used to smell. It's not…how you smell now. It was, well, nice." Derek really hates that he's doing this now.

"You think it had something to do with us being mates? Like, your body knew it, but because I hadn't finished puberty yet, you didn't know it?" Stiles squints towards the living room, where there is definitely giggling.

"Probably."

"Like Scott and Allison. And Lydia and Jackson. They were together before they knew," Stiles says.

"I was, uh, not very happy in high school," Derek starts. "so I don't think it would've been a nice experience, knowing me."

"…I don't think it would've been a nice experience knowing me," Stiles says after a bit, and his hand comes up to hold Derek's. "Not that it's any better now—"

"It is," Derek says.

* * *

"I can't believe we're watching The Notebook…again," Jackson says, two hours later, sitting on the floor next to Isaac and Lydia and Danny, clearly not happy. Derek doesn't understand how he got from sitting with Stiles in the kitchen to sitting with Stiles on the sofa, squished in between Eric and Laura and Scott and the sheriff. He doesn't even know why the sheriff is here. He wasn't here an hour ago, when the movie started. Maybe Derek has been staring at Stiles too much, because he sure as hell hasn't been paying attention to the movie.

"Ryan Gosling's hot," Lydia says, like that's a reason. Jackson bristles, then Allison nods in agreement, then Scott bristles, then Derek sees Stiles nodding in agreement, and, well, yeah, he bristles.

"Oh, come on, Derek," Stiles scoffs. "I mean, objectively, the guy's hot."

"Well, I'd like him to objectively get me hot," Danny says, and someone – Allison – throws a handful of pretzel sticks at him.

"I thought you had Daehler for that," Scott says, turns to Stiles. "The rookie from—"

"I know who Matt is." Stiles nudges Scott with his elbow. The sheriff lets out a loud snore.

"Oh, wasn't sure. You were kind of out of it after that last thing." Scott shrugs, leans back against the sheriff, who mumbles something about pepper and salt.

"I remember," Stiles grouches.

"By the way," Laura says from next to Derek, "you're an idiot."

"Oh my god, I know." Stiles shifts, like he's going to get up, and Derek grabs him and arranges him so he couldn't possibly.

"Guys, the movie," Lydia says, pointing towards the screen.

"Yeah, never go into something like that alone, Stiles," Erica says. "You're not Batman. You don't even look like Christian Bale."

"I prefer Flash," Stiles says, cringes when they glare at him. "All right, all right—"

"The movie. Guys," Lydia growls. Jackson looks nervous, suddenly. Derek wonders if this is going to be his life. Is he forever going to have to follow two conversations at once? Is he going to get tired of watching – or not watching – The Notebook? Are these movie nights (or, well, it's late afternoon, but he's assuming no one is moving for a while) a thing?

"—but I wasn't thinking. I mean, literally, guys. Everything was just running on instinct at that point. I don't think I could've stopped myself."

"Witches, man." Scott shakes his head. "Last time I'm getting drunk at a party."

"Yes, please, I like that." Stiles nudges Scott, grins at him, and Derek is not jealous. "Unless I'm there."

"You're kind of violent when you drink, Stiles, so no." Allison cuts in. Derek suddenly wants to see Stiles drunk. Is it the type of violence that could devolve into slightly angry sex? He could go for that.

"He gets viole—" He starts.

"The. Movie," Lydia snarls. Next to him, Laura and Erica have collapsed in a fit of giggles.

"I think we should just watch the movie," Isaac says. "Do they get together, in the end?"

"No, they die. Then the aliens take over Manhattan," Danny says. "And yes, I do have Daehler. But that still doesn't mean that Ryan Gosling isn't hot."

"Awesome, Danny!" Stiles nudges him with his knee. "Can I just say I'm glad we're not magically bonded so I don't know exactly how much of him you've had?"

"All of him." Danny looks up at Stiles, and his eyes gleam. Derek does not flinch. At all.

"You're giving me the bad-touch face, Danny," Stiles sighs, and Derek wonders if this is common. Probably. Incubi are practically the physical definition of bad touch. Well, Danny seems nice. Okay, he is nice. And Derek should really give him the benefit of the doubt, since he did kind of attack him in his coffee shop. And Danny was nice about it when he apologized.

But, to be fair, he attacked because he smelled his mate on an incubus. Any werewolf would've done what he had done.

"I will—" Lydia starts, and Derek watches as Jackson holds her arm so she can't get up.

"Again?" Danny scrunches his nose up. "I was trying to work on it the other week, but –"

"— eviscerate —"

"— every time I smile it just sticks –"

" — all of you!"

"— like that."

"Oooh." The sheriff, suddenly awake, shifts against Scott so he's sitting upright. "The Notebook. Haven't seen this since Lydia's birthday."

* * *

**TBC**

**One more chapter!  
**

**...Because I want to. And then I'm done.  
**

**Thanks for all the follows, favorites, and reviews!  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**I...I...I just. I'm sorry? **

* * *

The first time Stiles tops is actually twenty minutes after the first time Derek tops.

Or, well, that sounds a little…PG, doesn't it? Considering the context. Also, it's not like Stiles has actually topped Derek yet. But he's going to, because Derek just rolled over from where he's been collapsed on his stomach next to Stiles, and looked at him. And, hey, Stiles may not be a mind-reader, but when your mate looks at you like that—which is how Stiles looked at Derek an hour ago, when they both realized they were, for the first time in three weeks, completely alone in a house that is, usually, home to at least three other people—you know what they want.

But that all happened, so, back to the present…or, well, the future…

All right then, the first time Stiles fucks Derek is actually twenty minutes after the first time Derek fucks Stiles.

There, much better. Stiles loves the word fuck. It's like the Swiss army knife of the English language. It's a noun, and a verb, and an adjective, and...and…

And this is not the time to be thinking about the many merits of the word fuck because Stiles is about to fuck Derek, and what's the phrase? Actions speak louder than words?

"Really?" Stiles asks, his voice only partly breathless from surprise. The other part is due to him, you know, having just had Derek in him, like, ten minutes ago, surrounding him, pinning him to his bed and sucking hickeys wherever his mouth could reach (his shoulders and his stomach and the tender skin over his hip bone), biting at his neck and his hips, running his hands down his thighs, thrusting into him at an angle so perfect it had made Stiles speechless. And Stiles doesn't get speechless often.

So, yeah, mostly he's breathless because he's just been marked. Not visually—werewolf healing powers aren't really great for when you want to mark your significant other—but mentally, oh yeah. Definitely marked. He smells like Derek, and he feels Derek. Or, feels where Derek had him, stretched and filled, and…yeah, okay, so he's Derek's.

"Unless you're tired, I mean—" But Derek is smirking, and he's looking down at Stiles' dick, which is obviously happy to go another round, his eyebrows doing that thing that makes Stiles kind of want to shave them off, just to see if Derek's face could be as expressive without them.

"Fuck you." Stiles laughs, rolling over to lay half-over him, grinning when his hip brushes against Derek's cock, already half-hard.

"Well, yeah," Derek says, but it comes out in a gasp. "I mean, I know I'm a tough act to follow, and if you're not—"

"Since when are you sassy?" Stiles gets comfortable, lays his palm at the bottom of Derek's rib cage, just to see what it looks like.

It's weird that this isn't weird. But it's been like that for the three weeks they've known each other. Stiles is starting to realize that it doesn't matter if it's weird. It's just right, the way they go together.

"Since I made you come three times within an hour." Derek grins, and his hand comes up to knead at Stiles' ass.

"Yeah, well...you looked like you had fun, too," Stiles says. The first time, Stiles had been pushed against his bedroom door. His pants had been ripped off—and that's not a figure of speech, they had been ripped off—his briefs had been thrown somewhere, and Derek had just…he had…oh man, his mouth. And his hands. And his lips. Fuck, the things that man could do with his lips. They should be outlawed. Or, no, they shouldn't. Because then Stiles wouldn't have had the most amazing blow job ever. In the existence of blow jobs. It had been…transcendent.

"I did." Derek's other hand comes up to skim fingers down his back. He tips his head foreword, places a hot, open-mouthed kiss at the corner of Stiles' mouth. "Lots of fun."

Stiles growls, lets his hand move until it's tracing circles in the hair just above Derek's cock. He bites at his neck, grinning when Derek's hands suddenly grow claws.

The second time…the second time Stiles had come, they'd actually been on the bed. And Derek…Derek had fucking destroyed him. Turned him into a whimpering mass of need and want, made him beg for it as he fucked him with his fingers, first one, then two, then three, then four. And, all the while, he'd just…looked. His eyes had been everywhere, his mouth had been open, his breaths loud and shallow, his expression one of disbelief. Like he couldn't believe that Stiles was…well, Stiles doesn't know what he was thinking. But it was something dark and heady and probably left better in Derek's head.

Stiles had come, just from his fingers and that look. He'd come, mewling and yelling out Derek's name along with a thousand or so cusses, and then Derek had come, and, fuck, it had been everywhere. On his bed, on his stomach, his thighs, his face.

And then Derek had licked it all up.

And that had just made them both hard all over again.

"Fun is good." Stiles licks along Derek's lips, who promptly grabs his face and devours him. Stiles would love—love—to let Derek have his way with him again. He's not going to admit it, not yet, anyway, but the feeling of Derek's cock inside him is, well…it's magnificent. The heaviness. The fullness. The connection that is probably a mixture of biology and werewolf freaky magic. And the way he takes him apart, with those greedy fucking eyes and maddening touches. Oh yeah, he loves it. But he also loves—loves—the idea of being inside Derek.

Yee gods, just the fucking thought of it is making him leak pre-come all over the sheets. His cock, as they kiss, loose and dark and dirty, becomes hard and uncomfortable, pressed against Derek's hip, so he shifts, coming up to kneel on all fours, bracing himself on his forearms.

"You want it?" He rasps when they both have to stop or risk blacking out from oxygen deprivation. "Still? 'Cuz I'm good either wa—"

"Don't say tha—" Derek snarls, hands gripping his ass again. "Or I'll just take. And I want you. I want to smell like you."

Stiles grins, then, and he slides down, stopping to straddle Derek's knees.

He has a plan.

He has a plan and it's going to be awesome.

Because he's going to do exactly – well, not exactly, more like the Stiles version – of what Derek had done to him. He's going to unwind him. He's going to get him begging. He's going to make that beautiful mouth slack with want and need. He's going to make him come, again and again, until by the time Stiles starts fucking him, he'll already be his.

Stiles, to put it lightly, is surprised by how…well, ambitious he's being, because he doesn't remember being this enthusiastic with his other partners. Oh sure, it had been enjoyable, but this…this…meh, who cares. Everything before this doesn't matter. Everyone before Derek doesn't matter.

It's scary, yeah, that he's thinking this so soon, but, again, who cares. Stiles doesn't. Not anymore. He's completely sold. The dark side has won him over, not with cookies, but with hot naked man time.

Of course, if Derek were to, you know, bake cookies while naked…well, Stiles wouldn't dare protest.

"Are you just going to—Stiles," Derek gasps when he leans down and licks a long, hot, strip down the length of his cock. Stiles moans, closing his eyes and savoring the flavors on his tongue and the heady scent of Derek, so concentrated here, that's making his head swim.

He doesn't know why they haven't been doing this for weeks. Shit, for the first week – with the pack downstairs – they'd only engaged in some heavy petting, and maybe the errant hand job. Waste of time, really. Because Stiles should've gotten this taste – salty, bitter, Derek – in his mouth way sooner.

He growls, nosing at the base of Derek's cock, fondling his balls with one hand, his other splayed on Derek's thigh, his claws pricking into corded muscles. He could stay here, probably for hours, just smelling him, inhaling him. But that would be selfish, and Derek's blowjob had been…well, he hadn't been selfish.

He licks up the shaft again, moaning when Derek's hand grabs at his hair and pulls.

"Grab the headboard," he says, and his voice is low and guttural. As hot as the whole hair-grabbing thing is, Derek hadn't let him do anything but claw at the wall behind him, and Stiles is kind of getting some payback here. Then again, it's probably not payback if the person likes it, and Derek definitely likes it, if the way he moans, low and broken, is anything to go by.

And when Derek grabs his headboard, the wood creaking underneath his claws, he opens his mouth, and takes Derek in as much as he can. Which isn't all the way because, while Derek isn't extraordinarily long, he's thick. Stiles moans again, his mouth moving up and down, grinning when Derek makes a broken noise and starts thrusting up, his eyes red and dark, glued on his own cock and Stiles mouth around it.

He figures that he at least owes Derek three orgasms. He's actually glad he's doing this now, after he's come three times, because, even though he's hard and leaking right now, he's not in a frenzy. Not like he was before.

Not like he was when Derek had thrust into him for the first time, not rough, but just hard enough to make them both snarl. Not like he was when Derek had started moving, had started rolling his hips in these frustrating little circles, his cock hitting up against Stiles' prostate with each roll. And not like when Derek had started losing control himself, when his eyes had turned bright red and his canines had turned into fangs and his claws had pricked into Stiles' thighs in a good way. Not like when everything had devolved into frantic thrusting in and out, when Stiles had scrambled for a way, any way, to get him in deeper.

….so, no, Stiles was not like he was before. He's in control.

And, oh, his wolf likes the sound of that. It likes the sound of that a lot.

His mouth works Derek's cock, and his hands skim down Derek's thighs, then down past to play with his balls and the soft skin behind them. He doesn't go any farther, even though Derek tries to shift so he has no choice.

"Stiles," Derek says, and it's rough and broken enough that Stiles looks up. Their eyes meet, and then Derek comes.

And, really, Stiles tries to swallow as much as he can, but he's never been good at it. The swallowing, that is. Even though, right now, he wants to. The smell is, well, the smell of Derek's come is amazing every time. It's concentrated Derek, what can be bad about that? He tries, but half of it still lands on his face, and maybe, actually, that's better, because the way Derek looks at him when he's coherent enough would have made him come if he hadn't already done so. Three times.

Stiles grins and licks his lips. "One." He says. Derek blinks, and his cock twitches.

"Idiot." Derek grunts, head plopping back down on his pillow. Stiles smells the satisfaction that is practically oozing out of his pores, and nips at his hip-bone. Fuck, he doesn't know what it is about Derek's hip-bones, but they're just…they're bitable. Actually, everything about Derek is bitable.

"You really sure about this, Derek?" Stiles asks, sliding up to nip at Derek's lips. Derek growls, licking at the come on his face, hands kneading his ass.

"Fuck, yes, you idio—"

"Hey, you asked me like twenty times, I'm just being care—" Stiles grouches, scratching his hands down Derek's chest a little harder than he meant to.

"Don't," Derek snarls, and Stiles cocks his head. "Don't be careful."

Well, fuck.

Stiles growls, because he is suddenly much closer to coming.

"You can't just—" Stiles decides that the safest way to do this is to get away from Derek's face—get away from the way his eyes are hooded, the way his pupils are blown and his irises are a deep, dark, filthy red, away from his mouth that's open and panting—and makes his way, with kisses and licks and bites, back down to Derek's cock. Which is, already, twitching.

Has Stiles mentioned he's really glad his mate is a werewolf? With werewolf stamina? Yes? Good, because it is.

He wants to do this his way, and if he stays up there—stays where Derek can say shit like that—he's going to forget that he wants to see Derek fall completely apart. He growls into the skin of Derek's thigh, grabs his hips, and flips him onto his stomach.

And then his tongue is licking at Derek's hole, his hands kneading the globes of his ass, and everything is just so perfect and dirty, that he has to grab the base of his dick and squeeze, hard, to stop from coming.

"Stil—" Derek snarls, but he pushes back into him, so it's definitely the good kind of snarl. "Fucking fuck me al—ah—already!"

Stiles suspects that this is going to become an obsession. Making Derek beg, that is. Because his voice gets high and whimpery and it's tinged with anger, and the whole combination just, honestly, gets Stiles off.

It makes him want more.

"No," Stiles says, making the word needlessly breathy so he can watch Derek shudder, because he recalls, when Derek had been fingering him for what seemed like years, he had said almost the exact same thing, and Derek had replied almost the exact same way.

Derek must like that, because he keens. Or well, he starts to keen, but then he buries his head into the pillow, and the sound is muffled.

Stiles would giggle, if he wasn't worried it would ruin the whole in-control façade he has going on here.

He licks, and he tongues, and just when he starts sensing that Derek is going to wolf-out he's so frustrated, he replaces his tongue with his pointer finger, which gets a completely new sound out of Derek. Something between a moan and a growl. Oh, a groan?

…is that how the word had been made?

Huh, language lessons during sex. Cool.

Anyway, he traces Derek's hole with his finger, resting his head against his lower back and biting at the soft skin of his ass, and then he pushes in, reaching around to grab Derek's cock with his other hand.

"You fucker," Derek hisses.

"Yes," Stiles bites at his ass again. "That is exactly what I am."

It's a lesson in patience, opening Derek up. Because the man…the man is tight. But the way he squeezes around Stiles' finger—and then fingers—like he wants to suck him in, like he wants more, and wants it now, makes it hard for Stiles to not just fuck it all and replace his fingers with his dick.

He takes his time, though, even if he has to abandon Derek's and grab his own dick to stop himself from coming with every curse and snarl that escapes Derek's mouth.

It's when he gets his third finger inside that he hits Derek's prostrate, and he knows because Derek just freezes, and then his back arches, and when Stiles slides his fingers across it again, he comes.

"Two," Stiles says, but his voice is shaky and holy hell he just wants in. He wants in Derek now. Everything smells like sex and Derek and him and them, and it's all just intoxicating. So intoxicating.

He pushes Derek over to lie on his back, because as tempting as it is to go at it doggy style, he wants to see when Derek falls apart. He wants to see it when he falls apart because of him. When he sees him, though, he has to rock back to sit on his heels for a moment, because Derek…Derek looks debauched.

There's a bright red flush spreading from his cheeks to his neck. His lips are swollen from their kissing and from where it looks like Derek has been biting at them himself. His eyes are watery and dark, lidded and hazy. His chest – a chest that is covered in his own come and sweat – is heaving. His legs are spread, wide and open. Open for Stiles. And, fuck, his cock is still half hard.

Stiles licks his lips, just looking, and he doesn't even realize he's started pulling at his own dick until Derek snarls at him.

"In. Now, Stiles"

"Pushy, pushy," Stiles croaks, but his willpower is all but shot, and he moves to arrange it so Derek's legs are pushed even wider apart, and he's kneeling in between them, dick right up against Derek's hole.

He waits a breath, maybe two, and then, slowly, for as much his benefit as Derek's, pushes in. He takes his time, because he can tell it's driving Derek crazy, and he likes driving Derek crazy, and when he's bottomed out, he just…stays there for a bit, savoring the feel of Derek all around him. The almost unbearable tightness, the vibration of every moan and growl that Derek lets out as he tries to get him to move, the realization that, right now, he is in Derek.

"Derek," he says, and it's not that embarrassing that it comes out sounding reverent and, well, besotted.

"Move," Derek snarls, and, well, fine. If he wants to be all needy and shit, Stiles will gladly oblige.

So he starts moving, and the angle is weird until he leans foreword, caging Derek with his arms and pulling him further down, and then the angle is holy crap yes. Because each time he thrusts in, he can feel Derek shudder, hear him – feel him - muttering curses and his name and telling him to go faster and go harder. Each time he pulls almost all the way out, he can hear Derek moan at the loss, smell his disappoint for the second it takes for him to change direction.

He keeps going, and he watches as Derek grabs his own dick and starts pulling in fast, jerky movements. He should, if he was sticking with his original plan of, you know, making Derek into a quivering mess of need, bat his hand away and jerk him off himself. But he's a little busy being mind-fucked by how overwhelming this all is.

It's more than just fucking someone. It's more than physical pleasure. Hell, it's more than mental pleasure. It's…something else. Something that he can't describe. Something that he doesn't want to descri—

Ugh, and now he's getting philosophical about sex. And that's just embarrassing.

He bends over and kisses along Derek's jaw, down his neck. He bites at his shoulders and his collarbones, and travels up, back to nip at the bottom of his chin, all the while thrusting in and out, any sort of rhythm or finesse abandoned. He licks along Derek's lips, groaning when Derek bites at his and growling (a good growl) when Derek starts licking into his mouth.

And it's all way too amazing, so Stiles gives in to the ache in his balls and the pressure in his lower abdomen, and he comes, whimpering into Derek's neck, still thrusting, mostly on instinct, his cock tender and almost too sensitive to the quivers that spasm through Derek.

He keeps thrusting, harried and not at all elegantly, lazily marking up and down Derek's neck, until he stops at his jugular, taking a long, deep, broken, inhale, and then he bites down hard. Almost hard enough to break skin.

And then Derek comes with a string of curses, and Stiles just kind of collapses, burying his face in Derek's neck and staying there while he tries to get his breath back.

"I win," he says, maybe an eternity later, and laughs as Derek, unceremoniously, pushes him off the side of the bed. His body feels like jelly, so instead of getting up off the floor, he just starfishes out, smiling up at him when Derek rolls over to peer down with squinty eyes. "Four to five."

"Give me ten minutes," Derek says, "ten minutes and we'll make it a tie."

"Hell no." Stiles can't believe he's saying no to sex, but, really, he's done. For at least an hour. An hour, and then he'll be good enough to get up, get some food maybe, take a nap, and then, then, more sex. Definitely more sex. He should take another week off. Maybe they should go back to Derek's house – or, well, Peter's house, but Derek has a room – and break in his bed. Maybe the shower. "My dick's gonna fall off."

"...I came more than you," Derek growls. "And I feel just fine."

"Liar." Stiles smiles up at him. "By the way, that was amazing. You're amazing. Life is amazing. I'm, well, kind of, amazi—you're laughing. Stop laughing."

"I'm getting even, later." Is all Derek says, and the look in his eyes, and the smell of intent, makes Stiles stop smiling and cock his head at him.

He looks, and he looks, and he thinks he should probably say something funny and sarcastic, but, for the life of him, he can't think of anything that isn't sappy and heartfelt. He settles for the least sappiest statement.

"We should get a…a place," Stiles says, cringes at the way the words sound on his tongue. "I mean, I know it's been, what, three wee—"

"Yes," Derek says. "We should."

"Oh. Oh. Well…well, all right then." Stiles clasps his hands underneath his head, and he knows that the grin on his face is goofy and stupid, but he really couldn't care less. "That—that's good."

And, yeah, it's good. Everything is good.

* * *

**FIN**

**...this was NOT going to happen. But then I started writing, and it did. So, you know...yeah. Great. Porn. Lovely. Always needed, right?  
I'm thinking my next fic is going to be a shorter one.  
**

**As always: Thank you for the follows, favorites, and the reviews!  
**

**If you're on tumblr, I'm zosofi, so follow me there as well!  
**


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